


hold you close/tear you apart

by whore_or



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Drugs, Existential Dread, F/M, Fingering, Humiliation, Masturbation, Orgasm Denial, Phone Sex, Pining, Stalking, Voyeurism, an instaheal works for once, cockblocked by the entity, its fucked up, pet name overload, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:47:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whore_or/pseuds/whore_or
Summary: The new killer nearly stabs you to death, and then changes his mind. The new killer thinks you're cute. The new killer wants to have some fun.Ghostie tries to patch you up in the basement. An instaheal does not work as intended. It's all downhill from there.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Reader, Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/You
Comments: 119
Kudos: 473





	1. the proverbial "good stuff"

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fic in literal years so of course my first foray back into it is unhinged murder shit. typical! glad to see that other ghostie sluts just are into all the same freak shit as me (there are Dozens of us) so i feel a bit unoriginal, ah well. enjoy, i guess, if that's what you're into, i guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get some basement time in with the new guy. It's fine.

You wake up. There’s someone beside you. You’re not sure how you know, but it’s the new kid. 

You can’t see him in the darkness, but you feel his presence, hear his hands on metal, and you both get to work. As always with the fresh ones, you’re happy to show them the ropes, try to set their broken bones, lay down your shitty little body so they can scamper away just to die somewhere else.

He’s probably shy. His breathing is loud. From around the generator, he smells earthy, with a crisp edge; you can’t quite place what it is. 

After a few minutes of listening to him burn his fingers on wires, your mind places the scent, and floods with the sense memory of spooning with your high school boyfriend (the words _high school_ and _boyfriend_ feel like ancient relics by now); your face shoved against his neck, huffing in his cheap cologne. 

That’s exactly it. Sweat, cheap cologne. Leather. Interesting. Well, introductions can wait for the campfire. He pipes up, startling you--

“Have you seen who it is yet?” 

A surprisingly low voice, young, but a bit gravelly, maybe around your age.

“Not yet. Might be the new one. Stay on your toes.” 

He laughs nervously. “Yeah, you never know what kinda creep you’re gonna catch staring at ya.”

“Ah, it’ll be fine. You’re doing great, kid.” 

You lapse back into comfortable silence, listening to the trees rustle, looking forward to meeting this kid in better circumstances, hoping the killer is busy elsewhere, grateful you’re safe for now. You look up from your work for a moment, and--

“ _FUCK_ ,” you scream, stumbling backwards. The killer is peeking around the generator, a long mask screaming right back at you. 

“Peekaboo,” he says, sing-song, in the same voice as the kid on the gen with you. He pulls out a hunting knife that catches the light on its razor sharp edge. Fuck fuck fuck. 

You turn and sprint, heart pounding, but not before he slashes your arm. He’s close behind, too close to make distance on without running into nothing. You vault, sneak back around, and he still seems to know where you are. A generator pops across the forest. You think you’ve lost him and stop to catch your breath, observing your cut. The arm’s useless now, good luck with the gens, idiot. Tricked by a fucking killer. Ugh that cut _stings._

Then the knife is in your back, deep, and you scream like a dying animal on the way down, making mud in the dirt. He kneels next to you while you moan more from the shock of it than the pain. From what you can see from your fuzzed over vision, he’s small. Broad shoulders. Bigger than you, certainly, but not a giant. Not a monster. Just… some guy. 

“My _my_ , you make some delicious little noises, don’t you?” 

Okay. A weird creepy guy. With a teasing, low, yet oddly soothing voice. Maybe it’s just on account of the bleeding out and all, but you find something about it a bit… no no. Nevermind. You shoo the thought away. Not the time. A gloved hand rubs blood from your cheek, and then there’s an obscenely loud sucking noise. _Did he just… ?_ “And tasty, too.” God, since when do they fucking _talk_? 

“Alright, upsy-daisy doll,” His hand tugs at your shirt and he throws you over his shoulder like it’s nothing. Even with the other masked kids, the ones shorter than you, they carry you away with wobbly legs. You dangle over him and half-heartedly beat at his back. He responds in kind and gives your thigh a firm pat. 

“Careful there, cutie,” he says, “You don’t want me droppin ya on that nasty little cut, do you?”

And _pet names_ , jesus christ this one is the _worst._

The hook is coming, you know it is. He squeezes your thigh again, too high up, gross gross _gross_. “Okay girlie, this might sting a bit.” 

The hook pierces through you, jutting out of your chest. His hands linger on your hips as the pain crashes over you, and he tugs painfully down on your body so the hook hurts that much more. The scream rips out of your throat, you can’t help it. 

Wait. Why isn’t he leaving? He’s just… staring up at you, head cocked slightly. “T-the fffuck do y-you want, assh-hole?” He chuckles in reply. 

“If you don’t want me to stare then stop being so fun to watch, silly. Couldn’t help but look at ya while we were fixing that generator together. Really glad we got some bonding time in.”

You spit a hunk of blood and saliva at his mask. It splatters across that pale white and you hear him chuckle. 

“Ooh, feisty! Wanna scream for me some more, baby?” He leans in a bit closer, the dead blackness of the mask’s eyes boring into you, hands tugging harder on your legs, fuck, the hook is just _cleaving_ through you. 

“ _I know you want to~”_

You won’t give him the satisfaction. You kick your leg at him uselessly, which he dodges with ease. You’re gritting your teeth so hard to keep from screaming that they feel like they’ll crack. 

“Eat sh-shit, dude.”

He laughs again. “Haha, I _like_ this one,” he says, trotting off into the darkness. You hang there, dry sobbing and utterly confused. A new killer getting thrown into the mix was never a good time-- you always run into them nonstop for a long while, no idea what kind of pain they’ll inflict, whatever nasty little quirks you all have to start dealing with. The strategizing around the campfire, comforting the newer kids who just lost their entire world and have to accept the carousel of demons that inhabit this stupid eternal hell. Eventually, you all got used to them, dodged them mindlessly, saw them as just stupid animals thirsty for your blood. 

The devil of this stupid realm, whatever you call it, the entity, _whatever_ , seemed to always have some fresh hell in store for you, insidious little ways to twist the knife. Oh, getting hacked at by an insane blue schoolgirl not enough for you? How about spending the entire trial getting vomited on by an 8-foot tall chanting woman who sometimes spits poison bile right in your mouth so your body melts from the inside out? Or is getting gassed by a disgusting, coughing clown who eats your fingers off more your speed? God forbid you think you just made a new friend, no, the dude is a freak and wants you dead.

You had heard whispers of a new silent threat nobody could see coming until the knife was in your back, certainly, but you hadn’t heard shit about some flirty asshole who’s downright _chatty_ . Every time you think it can’t get worse, or you think there’s not some _small_ detail that isn’t going to potentiate your endless misery, _somehow_ , that spidery bitch in the sky finds a fresh new way to fuck you right in the--

“I gotcha,” Claudette says, struggling to pull you down off the hook. Landing back on the ground sends a shockwave of pain up through your heels. “Let’s get you fixed up, follow me.”

Watching Claudette go from constantly hiding in lockers, crying, to a badass field medic with nerves of steel had been a sight to behold, and you find yourself especially grateful for that fire-forged transformation in moments like these. You lean against the wall behind the killer shack and sob as she calmly unpacks her medkit. 

“New guy messed you up good, huh?” she asks, like everything is normal. “Anything I should keep an eye out for so he doesn’t tear me a new one too?”

“He-- _OW_ ow-- talks,” you pant as Claudette smoothes a balm across your arm that makes it feel like it’s being burned with a blowtorch. “This is bullshit, why do they have to _talk_ now.”

“He talks?” she repeats. “I haven’t heard anything. He scared the shit out of me though, peeking around the corner like that.”

“Oh, he _definitely_ talks,” another voice chimes in, and you spot him crouched up on the hill, staring down at you. “And he can do tricks, too. See?” He procures his knife seemingly out of nowhere, tosses it up in the air with a spin, and hops down to swing at Claudette. 

“SHIT,” she yells, suddenly stabbing into you with the needle as she dodges the blade. You grunt and your vision nearly blacks out. She drops her medkit and runs away, leaving you with a half-sutured wound, needle still poking out. Not fucking _again_. That was the one thing you missed about Claud before she just broke down from all the stress: she used to be so gentle with her hands, so careful. But now, for all her unflappable calm when healing, she really never gave a shit if the cure hurt more than the cut. 

The killer thankfully chases after her, and you slump over to a slab of wood and sit. You’re pretty fucked, all things considered. Someone’s already dead. Barely any generators fixed. God knows where Ace ran off to. You sense Claud go down nearby, and you can hear her swearing at him. You guess that with the information that he talks (and listens), she’s trying to get under his skin. It doesn’t seem to work, and she’s met with silence.

She’s on the hook and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can barely move. You hope that Ace gets his hands out of a chest on the other side of the map and does _something_. You have a moment… a moment to rest your eyes, maybe. Yes, that sounds nice… just a little rest...

When you open them again, you can tell Claudette isn’t on the hook anymore, thank god. Actually, you don’t know where anyone is, or if they even still _are._ Wait-- someone is breathing loudly nearby. You hope it’s Ace with another medkit. That needle went in _deep_. 

“You doing alright, princess?” 

“GOD DAMN IT,” you yell, again. The killer is crouched a few feet from you, idly twirling his knife around his gloved fingers. “Mm, there’s that scream. Pret- _ty_.” 

This fucking guy.

For some reason you’re more fucked up than usual; blood everywhere, entire body screaming with pain in a way you haven’t felt in ages. You’re not really sure how you’re still conscious, but you’ve decided: fuck this guy, fuck his sultry voice, and fuck his stupid fucking knife. 

“Stop dicking around and just kill me already,” you groan.

He clasps a hand to his heart (does this asshole even _have_ one) and chuckles. 

“God, you are just a little dream, aren’t you? Begging me to kill you so _nicely_.” He stands up. 

“Can’t give it to you just yet, cutie. You’re gonna have to wait for it.” He crouches away, but over his shoulder he says, “Try not to miss me too much,” and you swear you can hear him wink.

You slip back into unconsciousness and hope you don’t wake up.

* * *

When you wake up again (god damn it), before you even open your eyes, you already know he’s there. “Fuck off, man.”

“Where to? It’s just me and you now, babe. We got all the time in the world.”

You reluctantly open your eyes. He must have moved you to the basement. You’re leaning against a wall, he’s sitting on a chest, legs crossed and bouncing playfully. He’s also covered in the blood of your friends. 

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” you ask, only half joking. How the fuck are you not dead yet. Why do the killers get worse every time a new one pops up. This _sucks_. OW.

“Me? Obsessed? We just met, babe-- don’t flatter yourself. We’re not on that level yet,” he says, pulling out, of all things, a digital camera. You kinda forgot those existed, let alone _here_. He shows you the screen and flips through dozens of pictures of you from this trial, all from different angles. Clearly a bunch from when you were passed out. He clears his throat and puts it away. 

“So, as you can see, I’m not obsessed, just interested. Consider it an intellectual curiosity.”

“What the fuck,” you say, flatly, no surprise in it. “Why are you being such a fucking creep? Why can’t you just be normal and shove my head in a bear trap or some shit,” you whine, fully exasperated.

“But that’s no _fuuuuuun_. For me, at least.”

“So then what _is_ fun?”

That tickles him, you suppose, because he pulls his knees up to his chin and titters confidentially like a school girl at a sleepover. 

“Well, I’m a boy with a big knife, and you’re a pretty girl, and we’re just sitting here having a nice conversation in my murder basement. I think that’s kinda fun, don’t you? You don’t have to run from me, I don’t have to break my kneecaps kicking gens, y’know. Just… a break.”

You look at him dumbly. “Not much of a break when you’re mortally wounded, you ass. If you’re gonna pull this shit at least give me a bandage or something.”

He cracks up, holding a hand over his face as if to hide a smile. “Oh my god, you’re cute. You tried to kick me earlier and now you want the killer to kiss the boo boo?”

This is ridiculous. You try to cross your arms but it hurts so bad you give up. 

“Dude I am straight up dying. Are you gonna do it or not?”

“Well, you’re making some _really_ precious sounds with those injuries but… You know what? Fuck it. I’m in a good mood today. Why not?” He hops off the chest and roots around. 

“Lucky you, we got ourselves a medkit.” He sidles up across from you on the ground, sitting criss-cross applesauce, like a little kid. He unfurls a roll of gauze and stares at it. 

“I have absolutely no idea how to use this,” he muses. He takes a look at your body, prods at it. It’s less like he’s taking inventory and more like he’s just playing. 

What the fuck is even _happening_. 

He starts to bandage the wound on your arm, just doing an awful job of it. Better than nothing, you suppose. He moves on.

“Alright, I gotta touch some, ah, sensitive parts of you to make it all better. That ok?”

“I-- you nearly stabbed me to death and you want permission to touch my boobs?”

“Okay, look, I’m trying to be a gentleman here, and I resent what you’re implying about my moral character. I may be a sicko, but I’m not a _sicko_. And besides, I’m not ready to kill you just yet,” he pauses, “I save that for the third date.” 

“ _STOP DOING BITS AND JUST FUCKING FIX ME, MAN._ ”

“Alright, alright, no need to be bitchy about it,” he grumbles, hastily sliding your shirt up over your bra. The gashes stretch right under your left tit, arching up over your right. Big ol hole where the hook stabbed through. 

“Ouch,” he says, staring at your chest. You’re fully glazed in sweat and mud and snot and dried blood. Your hair is wet and stringy, makeup surely all over your face. You actually can’t tell if he’s staring at the gore or your tits heaving out over your black bra, but if you had to guess you’d probably say both. 

“Still trying to be a gentleman here, but uh,” he gives a low whistle, “Nice.”

Okay so it definitely was both. And you kinda don’t mind. Mostly because the pain is blotting out all coherent thought so much you don’t have much room to be bothered. 

“Thanks, grew ‘em m’self.” He laughs, and you blush a bit. What the hell.

He swabs a cloth across the wound and the alcohol sears into the cut. Your breath comes out harsh and fast. A gloved hand holds the side of your face, surprisingly gentle, and you hate yourself for the fleeting thought, but you’re glad it’s him and not Claudette. His other hand fiddles with a syringe that you recognize as that heavy anesthetic Kate gave you once that completely knocked you on your ass. David had to bridal carry you out the exit and you were high as fuck all night. The idea that the pain might be close to disappearing altogether is all you can think about. You realize you’re crying.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Worst part’s over. Gonna give you the proverbial Good Stuff, alright?”

You nod, tears rolling down your cheeks. You feel terribly vulnerable and know this sick fuck is loving every second of this, but you would do anything to stop the pain. He plunges the needle into your thigh and you feel the medicine send lightning bolts of ice through your veins. It starts to kick in immediately as he rubs the entry point in little circles with his thumb.

“Oh thank god, oh holy shit, ohhhh fff……..” you sigh, crazy relieved but now slightly more aware that it’s a serial killer playing doctor with you. You side eye him.

“Weirdly pleasant bedside manner for a killer,” you mutter, your muscles going slack, head dizzy, the relief from the pain slowly creeping up on you. He shrugs. 

“See? I’m not so bad. I might be in a stupid spooky get-up and these little dangly gravity-defying bits follow me everywhere and I _am_ contractually, I dunno, _spiritually_ , maybe a bit _sexually_ obligated to stab everyone I meet to death, but does that make me _evil_?”

You say “yes” because “duh” would be rude probably. 

He backpedals, waving the empty syringe in the air. 

“Okay, fine, definitely sounds worse when I say it out loud. So what? Maybe I am a _little_ , teensy baby _tiiiiny_ bit evil. But does that make me a bad guy?”

You start to say yes again but he smooshes a finger against your lips.

“And when you answer that question remember who just injected you with some very tasty shit that’s currently making your eyes roll back and who also would be _very_ stoked to murder you right now.”

Hm yeah your eyes are kinda rolling back, huh. That’s kinda embarrassing, you _guess_ . God he’s right, this shit _is_ tasty. The pain is just washing away, replaced with pure sunshine. You didn’t answer his question and instead are just humming to yourself. 

“Oh, does that feel good, pretty girl?” he says, voice husky, but you don’t totally clock that considering, well, the drugs.

He continues to work on cleaning you up but you’re not really aware of it anymore. The pain is most assuredly still _there_ , and you’re definitely embarrassed and frightened in some far corner of yourself, but those feelings are in a box in the attic and those are problems for Future You (if there _is_ any future you-- _nope that goes in the box too_ ). 

All you can feel right now is soft leather smoothing over your skin, the smell of that cheap cologne and rubbing alcohol filling your nose, and hear the breath echoing from behind the mask as he idly mutters to himself things you’re kind of glad you can’t quite make out.

“This is actually... really... nice…” you mumble. It _is_ nice. Maybe he’s right. Maybe this guy isn’t so bad after all. Maybe he just has a shitty sense of humor. How could he be bad, with that heat unfurling from your stomach as he holds your waist, so close, so tight, his strong muscles being used deftly to heal you and oh god you’re turned on. Oh no. Oh god damn it the fucking _syringe_ has got your sexy wires crossed and now they’re all being rererouted straight to where his hands are making contact with your body. 

The situation suddenly hits you from the side as very funny; again, drugs. This serial killer with the sexy voice and broad shoulders is bandaging you up in a torture dungeon, you’re high as fuck, he’s calling you pretty, threatening to murder you in the future, and you’re fucking _into it_ . You didn’t even know you were allowed to be horny here. Had no idea the entity would let you. Hadn’t had much of a chance to think about it, what with the constantly getting murdered and all. But now it’s like the floodgates are open, and oh that’s an awful ( _if not accurate_ ) phrase to use (you giggle at that), and you are _burning_ . _Please don’t notice._

“Something up?” he says, _noticing_ , leaning in, pressing more of his body against you. 

“Mmm... nothing,” you say, sleepily. 

“You sure? Your cheeks just turned pink and you’re making those cute little noises again.” His hand cups your chin and you stare at that stupid mask through half lidded eyes. _God_ you are far gone.

You giggle again like you’re drunk. “Sorry, m’just… lots of drugs… you smell… nice, and I… your body feels… mmm...” you trail off, melting into his hands, pressing harder into his arms, sighing happily. You haven’t been touched like this, so tenderly, in… who knows… everything’s… tingly...

He shifts away from you and you pout at the lack of touch. “Lean back,” he commands, and he pulls your back against his chest until you’re flush against him, his legs ( _are those… leather pants_ ) bracketing yours. You can barely keep your head up straight. It lolls back onto his shoulder, and you can smell him so sharply now. Sweat and leather, that sharp shitty cologne, coppery blood, plastic, and something else, you have no idea, almost like tobacco, or old books, or--

His arms are tight around you, his hands lightly roaming down to your bare stomach, your shirt still pulled up. “You’re making… why are you… moa--” he rasps in your ear, voice dropping lower as he realizes, “Do you... _like_ that?”

You’re too far gone and you’re pleased as punch about that, head empty, clouded over, who cares, all you know is that you feel _so_ good and you don’t want it to stop. “Yeah that--” He pulls your hips sharply back towards his and your breath hitches-- “Mmm that feels really ff-fucking… ah,” and his other hand is circling your neck, so gentle, and oh _god_ are you _really_ fucking into that--

“You... are just full of surprises,” he’s saying, squeezing tighter, voice wrapping a vice around your brain, sickly sweet and filthy, your head is getting lighter, “What a dirty girl. You turned into a little slut the moment my hands were on you. I could choke you to death right now and you’d beg me to do it, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even realize that you instantly say “yes sir” needily but you can feel him shuddering around you, breathing harshly, and your thoughts are getting darker, and dirtier, and...

“Did you just call me _sir_ ? Oh, you are my absolute _favorite_ , I knew it, I knew the moment I saw you that you were special, my _god_ , I’m going to do absolutely terrible things to you, you don’t even know, doll I cannot _wait_ …” 

You automatically breathe “yes sir” again and he slides a hand all the way down to the front of your skirt, grazing around your hipbones and barely dipping _lower_ and jesus are you about to get fingered by a murderer sure yeah who cares who cares! just wanna feel good just wanna cum just wanna _please…_

“What do you want?” he asks, you can hear the sick smile on whatever his face looks like, ( _he can be anything you want him to be, he could be gross, he could be_ so _hot, you don’t even know, why does that turn you on even_ more), he’s getting hard, oh my god his dick feels _huge_. He smacks you lightly on the face to bring you back.

“What do you want me to do to you, baby? If you want it you have to tell me.”

His fingers are slipping slightly under the hem of your skirt, snapping the band of your panties against your skin impatiently and he’s being such a _tease_ and you can’t take it anymore-- “Pl- please, touch me, and don’t s-stop,” and he says “Touch you _where,_ ” with such fire that immediately you’re begging him, “Please put your fingers in me, I want you to touch my pussy I wanna cum on your fingers _please please_ ,” and he shoves his hand to the drenched spot in your panties so fast you yelp. You’re so soaked that there’s almost no friction at first, just sliding leather fingers, probing, teasing. He’s growling in your ear now, pulling your head back with a hand tangled in your hair--

“You’re so wet I can feel it through my _gloves_ , oh _babe_ , you filthy little thing. I just killed your friends and I’m rubbing their blood right into your pussy and you love it and don’t you worry, _I’m gonna kill you too_ and-- oh, your pussy _clenched_ when I said that, you siiiiick little slut. Good little girl, making such a mess on my fingers…”

His achingly slow pumping into you and his thumb rubbing into your clit mixed with the pain and his filthy mouth has you babbling and moaning absently in response, bucking your hips into his hand, breathing hard, grinding your ass back against him so you can hear that sexy voice drop, hear him lose track of his words just like you are, turn him on so much that he shuts _up_ for once, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll fuck you, and _oh god what kind of terrible things is he going to do to you_ , the thought of his cock in you and his knife at your throat nearly throws you over the edge, and he speeds up, relentless, and he growls “Are you gonna cum for me, kitten?” and you just _beg_ for it and then--

You’re face first on the ground. There’s dirt in your mouth. Steel-toed boot grinding into your back, wounds reopened. Suddenly you’re terribly alert, and the pain hits you like a truck (he did an awful job, he did it on _purpose_ ).

All you can hear is laughter. 

“Oh my GOD I can’t believe that worked, _hooooly_ shit. You look like a kicked puppy, your eyes are so huge and glossy right now it’s like you’re a lil cartoon character or something. Did you really believe all that shit about--” he puts on a mocking tone, twisting the boot into your spine with each word, “ _Nooo, you can trust me, I’m a serial killer who gets off on people in pain and am definitely about to drug you but I’m not EVIL or anything~”_

You want to hit him. You want to tear his throat out. You want to fuck him. You want to kill him.

“But-- but you said you weren’t going to-- we were just-- I- I was gonna--” You spit a broken tooth out onto the ground. 

He’s still giggling maniacally. “Cupcake, oh boy-- and this is gonna shock you-- I _lied!_ I _really_ didn’t think you’d be that _gullible_ , that _easy._ I barely touched you and you were straight up begging to cum on my fingers. Oh, this _rules_.” 

You’re stunned into silence. That box in the attic with all the pain and shame and fear is tumbling down the stairs and you are _fucked_. 

“ _You called me ‘sir,’”_ he adds, incredulous. “I didn’t even have to ask or threaten you into saying it, you just _did_ it. Would you have called me ‘daddy’ if I had kept going?” He doubles over in laughter again until he’s just wheezing. 

“Oh shit, oh I’m crying, oh man.” He faux wipes away a tear. 

“Whew. Alright, well, it’s been a pleasure, doll.”

He steps off your back for one blissful second, and then drops his entire body onto the center of your back. All of your ribs break instantly. You can’t help but howl now, unhinged, you know he loves it, but your existence is an explosion of pain and nothing more. 

Except: a poisonous, sweet whisper snaking through your head.

“And one more thing: I take back what I said earlier about having a quote-unquote ‘intellectual curiosity’. Sorry pumpkin, I’m fucking _obsessed_ with you now. When I get my hands on you again, oh. You don’t even want to _know.”_ You sob.

“See ya soooon!” 

He giggles, plunges the knife into your back, he is absolutely still hard, you’re dying, you wish you were dead, you wish you had cum, everything is going black but not fast enough, please god make it stop, he’s dragging your head back like he was not moments ago, _FLASH_ , then 

darkness 

darkness

  
  
  
  


darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am a pervert and i'm sorry


	2. do you like to hurt? i do, i do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You forget about what happened last time with Ghostface, you actually don't think about it at all. You don't see him again. Nothing weird happens.
> 
> Haha. Just kidding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome to the filth. turns out, i like italics and getting cockblocked by the entity too much. thanks for being so sweet about the last one. kick off your shoes/pants and enjoy your stay.

It was the drugs, right? Had to be. That’s all.

He was fucking with you, plain and simple. The killer’s job is to be as cruel and as evil as possible, and boy, this guy fucking nailed it. One moment your world is ending, and the next you’re walking up to the fire. You take a seat, head pounding, rubbing at the phantom pain in your back. 

“Hey, there she is,” Claudette calls, “You look better. Chatterbox give you any shit?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I just looped him until I found the hatch. Sorry I wasn’t much help.” The lie leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Seemed like he got you good. Just glad to see you in one piece.” You’re relieved when more survivors return to the fire, some weary, some triumphant. You blend into the background and joke half-heartedly with the others, feeling distinctly _apart_. 

“Claudette mentioned the new killer was talking to you,” Jane asks, startling you. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

She stares at you with those welcoming brown eyes. She had always been eerily adept at reading people. Maybe you could… maybe she would understand… no. The thought of saying it out loud feels like it would make it real. Make it harder to forget.

“I would tell you if I had any,” you grumble, shoving at the fire with a stick. She clearly sees through it, but being as tactful as she is, she just squeezes your shoulder and lets it go.

There’s no way you can tell them what happened. Imagine the judgement… and multiply that by eternity. You’re a bunch of attractive, desperate people stuck in purgatory. Of course there are trysts, crushes, hook-ups, whatever-- some of them more obvious than others. You never pried. Sure, you’ve caught Kate on her knees dozens of times, everyone knows Laurie and Jane have a whole _thing_ , David has clumsily come onto you in the past (but he’s like that with everyone), and on and on. But you had never heard about doing anything with a _killer_. That just didn’t happen. So you stay quiet.

For some reason none of the others ever appealed to you all that much. Maybe something about it felt too incestuous. You had friends here, sure, but nothing more than that. It was the one way in which this place was like the life you had before: you didn’t date much, and fucked even less. Maybe it was your tendency to go after people who were bad for you. Maybe it was that nobody _good_ ever wanted someone like you in the first place. Not that it matters anymore. Not here. 

The group eventually disbands as a handful are called to a trial and disappear into the forest. Those remaining scatter around the clearing to get some rest. You lie on your side and attempt to get comfortable-- there’s no such thing as comfort here, really, so it’s more like getting not-uncomfortable. Thoughts flit through your mind and the tiredness in your bones settles in. _What a shitter of a day, man._

Well, “day”, whatever that means. Fine: the thing that happened in this close span of time was bad, and you’d really rather not think about it. Instead, you’ll think about the sound of rain in the forest, how good it feels to make Nea laugh, and how proud you are of Steve for wiggling out of that gross Clown’s arms at the exit earlier. Some more nice things, the few you have left. 

Sweet things. Lovely things. (A voice, hissing: _You filthy little thing._ )

Nope. Absolutely not. Not that. Anything but that. 

But a surge of electricity flashes through you at the thought anyway. 

_I’m fucking obsessed with you now_. 

What does that even mean!? If that’s how the first time you met went, what the hell else was he planning to do to you? What kind of sick shit does he have in store? How many times will he try to tease you, give you something good just to tear it away? _Oh, you are my absolute_ favorite _._

You feel your underwear suddenly go damp. 

_No, no_ , _we’re not doing this. Unrelated. Nothing to do with him._ You squeeze your eyes shut and try to ignore it. You had a rough day, you’re tired, you’ve still got drugs in your system, you’re just confused. You think of unpleasant, distinctly not horny stuff to dull the feeling. Mud in your socks. Burns on your fingers. Getting cuts on pallet splinters. _Knife in your back..._

You’re throbbing, the need is so sharp and nagging that you give up, you need relief; you’ll indulge it. You unzip your pants and pray no one hears you over the roar of the fire. _We all think about weird stuff in the heat of the moment, it’s fine. Do what you gotta do._

With that permission, your mind spirals out: gloved hands on your throat. Body heat. Cheap cologne. Blood between your thighs. Slick leather sliding in and out of you. Low words dripping with venom and honey, _What do you want me to do to you, baby? Cupcake? Princess? Kitten?_

_Would you have called me ‘daddy’ if I kept going?_

Yes sir; yes _sir_ , yes d--

Your brain twitches. You’re so close to the edge and you can’t make it; your desire is a dog straining against its chain. Your thighs are shaking, your hands are cramping, you’re panting like a bitch in heat, and it just. Won’t. Happen. At this point you’re too sensitive. You pull your wet hands out of your pants and observe them with disgust. You’re so frustrated you could cry. You’ve never had this problem here before. When you first got here, there was nothing that could stop you; it was all you had. Where else could you get relief? Comfort? Anything even resembling _calm_? The urge had gone away over time, a vestigial need that served no purpose, but that was like insurance: there if you needed it, an option.

But now that’s gone too. A wash of shame falls over you as you think about the carousel of filth that came to you while you were touching yourself. Why, _why_ can’t you be like the others? Make out with Dwight. Go down on Nea. Get this worked up over anything else. 

All of this-- over a _killer_ ? _Because_ he’s a killer?

Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a deep, unsettling sound; a sound like bones breaking, fire burning, insects swarming; a dark chittering you hear only when your broken body is splintering beneath sharp black tendrils. 

The entity is _laughing_ at you.

* * *

Time, whatever that means here, marches on. You die. You escape. You die some more. You laugh around the fire. You cry to yourself at night. The usual. You don’t think much about what _happened_ anymore, really ( _except when you’re alone and your thoughts are dark and your hands are--)_ , and the idea of it doesn’t bother you at all ( _except when you’re so so close but your body won’t let you have it_ ).

But who knows how long ago that was, you haven’t seen him since, and you’re glad for it ( _are you though_ ). From what the others have told you, he’s brutal. They very rarely escape, and when they do, they come back with haunted faces. You’ve got enough on your plate. It’s probably a mercy you have one less killer to deal with. So it goes.

It seems like you all might have gotten lucky this time.

Occasionally the Entity throws you a bone. Some trials seemingly have no killer; you run around, try as you might, looking for that invisible evil. Sometimes you and the others will gather in a living room of that eerie suburban neighborhood and just enjoy each other’s company for a while longer. Couches, remember couches? A house, a home. 

Of course, other times you get a bit cocky, and realize a little too late that the cannibal is waiting for you in the basement, and then, well, you know the rest. 

So you, Claud, Ash, and Meg finish five gens in record time, dismantle all the totems, plunder a pile of medkits, toolboxes, and flashlights-- Ash even finds a key. You’re in the ski resort, the type of place you never got to go to in real life ( _oh god what if that was all a lie what if this is real life_ ). You all shoot the shit in what’s left of the lobby, throwing rocks at the walls, relieved you don’t have to fight for your lives, at least for a moment. Eventually, the others get restless and want to find the hatch so they can use Ash’s key. Words start to tumble out of your mouth.

“You guys go ahead, I’ll grab a gate. Just want some time to myself.” 

They ask if you’re sure, clearly concerned they might be abandoning you. You wave them off. You’ve only been here once before, you want to explore, you’ll be fine, yes you’re sure, just go. You don’t tell them that the twitching in your brain is back, because you don’t notice it. You just feel compelled to stick around, to read the clippings on the walls. You stray from the fire and make your way up the stairs, snooping, daydreaming, imagining how cozy this place must have been once.

Something catches your eye. A few candles flicker in the corner, surrounded by photos strung up on the wall. These don’t look like the others, they’re not faded clippings; they’re new. What is this? Who lit the candles? And what’s that gentle, sharp scent--

“Hey cutie. Miss me?”

You scream and double over to catch your breath. It’s him. He’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, head cocked. He had to have been following you, watching you… that twitching in your brain suddenly makes sense. Why didn’t you _leave_?

Of course. It’s a trap.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry babe, can’t help it. Making you scream is just too fun.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you hiss, turning towards the stairs. This is bad. You have to get to the exit, now. He grabs your arm before you can even make a step.

“Whoa, whoa, where ya going? I just got here. I mean, that’s a lie, I’ve been here the whole time watching you and your little friends, but you get the point.”

“Get away from me,” you growl, trying to get past him. No use.

“ _Oh, hey, Ghostface, I missed you sooo much, you look really sexy today, how are you doing?_ I’m feeling just peachy, thanks for asking,” he says, shaking his head, “I swear, we need to teach you some manners.”

It’s ridiculous, but you can’t help but laugh. “Ghostface, seriously? _That’s_ your name?”

“Of course not, doll, but that’s on a need-to-know basis. I didn’t ask for yours, you don’t need to know mine. For all intents and purposes, your name is whatever I want to call you. Cupcake, for instance. Or pumpkin. Or sugartits, I like that one. You know, it keeps things fresh, adds an air of mystery.”

“Again, extremely go fuck yourself.” 

“Aw, are you still mad about last time? Is this our first fight?” 

“Well, let’s see,” you count off with your fingers, “You fucked me up beyond recognition, killed my friends, drugged me, did the worst medic job I’ve ever seen, by the way, took advantage of me, humiliated me, and then killed me as brutally as possible. What could I _possibly_ be mad about.”

He rubs the backs of your arms up and down. “C'monnn dollface, don’t be mad. I was just messing around. I thought we were having fun,” he says, “I mean, it certainly seemed like _you_ were.”

Unbelievable. You regret not leaving when you had the chance. Now you’re alone with him _again_. A headache starts to creep up on you.

“Also, what in the fuck is this,” you ask, gesturing to the weird... shrine, you guess.

“I thought you’d never ask!” He lets go of you to gesture at the wall with a flourish. “Welcome to my boudoir. Make yourself cozy. I’ve been awful busy with my photography lately, especially now that I’ve found my _muse_. See, here’s you around the campfire,” he starts pointing to the blurry figure in the photos, and with a dawning horror you realize they’re all of you. 

“Here’s you fixing a generator, this one is you sleeping, here’s you getting caught in a trap, which was just--” He mimes a chef’s kiss. “Mwah. And how could I forget--”

He rummages around in his robe. “Check it out. I’m quite proud of this one actually. I had to do some work to get the exposure _juuuust_ right. The diagonals of the composition, gotta keep things dynamic, you know,” he finds what he’s looking for and pulls it out. “Ta-da! Do you like it?”

It’s… a picture. It’s a picture of you. Oh _god_ , it’s a picture of you _masturbating_. 

You squeak. 

“Oh, I knew you would! Isn’t it pretty?” 

You’re so thoroughly embarrassed-- _violated_ \-- you can’t even form words.

“I was curious though… whatcha thinkin ‘bout there, huh? Wanna tell me about it?”

“I’m-- I wasn’t-- _nothing_ ,” you sputter, unable to look at him, even with the stupid mask on. 

“Ah-ah, look at me,” he tuts, firmly, grabbing your chin with his hand. “Answer the question.” 

Fuck, it’s like he _knows_ . He _knows_ you were thinking about him, you’re sure of it. You regret existing and know you’re getting redder by the second, and with his hand holding your chin steady like that...

“N-normal stuff, I- I don’t know, just, sex, and stuff. I don’t know!”

“Of course. Sex… and stuff. Makes sense. Personally, I’m more of a sex-and-murder kind of guy, but hey! Whatever floats your boat, right?” He scrutinizes the picture more. 

“I wonder.... were you thinking about one of your little friends, huh? Hoping they might hear you? Or maybe, dare I say, your good pal Ghostie? About my hands on your throat, in your--”

“NO, you _wish_ , you pervert.” He shrugs, still staring at the picture. 

“Guilty as charged. But see, from where I was standing, it kinda seemed like you were having some trouble there. Pity I couldn’t step in, but, you know,” he gestures to the sky, “The lady upstairs can be a real stickler about rules sometimes.” 

You wish that awful spider bitch upstairs ( _whose laughter you feel in your bones again_ ) would just stab you through the heart right now, break your skull, pulverize your brain, you don’t need eyes anymore, nope. 

“Anyway, just wanted to give you a peek before it goes into my personal scrapbook,” and you can hear the wolfish grin dripping off his words: “ _With the rest of them_.”

“N-no, you can’t have-- that’s not-- that’s _gross_ \--” you reach for the photo, but he dangles it just out of reach above you, pulling away so you’re bumping against his chest, grasping uselessly at the air. 

“Easy there babe, don’t hurt yourself,” he purrs, his other hand going to your lower back. “Unless you just want me to fix you up again, hm? Take another trip to the basement with me?”

“Fuck you,” you spit, shoving him away ( _because he’s right_ ). He folds the picture up and tucks it back into his robe, just over his chest. You try to move away once more and he blocks your path, forcing you to bump into his body again.

You’re freezing, and he’s _so_ warm. Your head is spinning. That spindly twitching you feel when you touch yourself twists around your brain again, and you can’t tell if it’s the entity’s influence or just your own sick subconscious. You want him to keep touching you. No drugs this time. No; you’re furious, embarrassed, dead sober, grossed out, but you’re so horny you can’t think straight. When was the last time anyone paid attention to you like this? The last time you felt desired? The last time you felt anything close to _good_ in this hellhole? You feel your moral backbone crumbling into dust.

He snaps to get your attention. “Hello? Earth to princess? Listen, not everyone has an appreciation for fine art, and I get that, but you’re being a bit rude. Plus we haven’t seen each other in _forever_. If I was of a more sensitive disposition, my feelings would be very hurt right now.” 

“I don’t care about your feelings. News flash, I don’t care about _you_.”

“Haha, sure, sure,” he holds out his hands like he’s spelling out a news headline, “‘BREAKING: Local Hot Stuff _Hates_ Disturbingly Handsome Serial Killer; Still Wants to Fuck Him. More at 11.’”

You copy his gesture, glaring. “How about ‘UPDATE: Local Woman Turns the Tables on Disgusting Murderer, Cuts His Dick Off; Woman Still Considered Armed and Dangerous.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’d love to see you try. By the way, if you’re trying to make me less obsessed with you, the castration threats are definitely not helping.”

The idea that even you making threats turns him on churns your stomach unpleasantly ( _very pleasantly_ ). You’re cornered. You’re not sure where else to go here, but you need to do _something_ before you end up in another compromising situation. 

“Listen dude, the banter is fun and all, but you can drop the scumbag boyfriend act. I’m not stupid. You’re here to torture me. I exist to suffer. Your job is to humiliate and hurt me as much as possible before you kill me, right? My own personal hell? Well, you figured it out. I’m ashamed and confused and terrified and, fuck it, you’re right, I’m horny. It literally couldn’t get any worse. So congrats all around.”

“Whoa there Neitzche, no need to be such a bummer about it. If you say you exist here to suffer, don’t you just want to stick it to the spider lady upstairs? Break the rules? Fight the power? Do something _wrong_ that makes you feel right?”

He’s preaching to the choir. You want it. It _does_ sound nice. _Just give in…_

“Yeah, if we’re gonna get all literary about it, what’s that Sartre quote… ah-- ‘If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands’? You see where I’m going with this.” 

No. No, he’s manipulating you. You keep your mouth shut. You’re afraid of what might come out of it.

“Not into the _No Exit_ references, huh? Hit too close to home? I think I remember some poetry, something romantic … d’you like Neruda? No? More of an E.E. Cummings kinda gal?”

At this point you’re wondering if jumping out the window will kill you faster than he can. 

“Look, I’m sorry you’re upset, but my patience is running a little thin there. Can we just skip to the part where we kiss and make up?”

“Don’t you have some kids to kill somewhere else, or, or something?” You try to shove him away one more time but he doesn’t budge. His hands fall to your hips and pull them closer to his. The heat is radiating off of his crotch. That shifting feeling in your core is now impossible to ignore.

“... Orrrrr we can skip to the part with the hatefucking, if that’s more your speed. Maybe then we could finally get you off, hm? I have some things I’d like to try,” he purrs, his knife ( _where the fuck did that come from_ ) whispering across your throat. And just like that, you’re wet again.

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he cages you against the wall, lifting your chin gently with the tip of the blade, “I know how badly you want it. I can _smell_ it.”

You’re holding on by a thread. “Dude, for the last time, save it. Not interested.”

“Fine. Whatever you say,” he mutters, letting you go, turning away, _finally_. 

Then there’s that familiar feeling of a boot in your back and you’re bent over the window, ass up, the wind completely knocked out of you. You feel him kneel down next to you, hand pressing on your lower back firmly, lifting your skirt, and _he absolutely sees it dripping down your leg, fuck_. You squirm, the wood pressing harshly into your stomach. 

“So, tell me again about how you’re not turned on by this at all.” That _tone_. So infuriatingly smug in a way that certainly isn’t helping the situation. 

He smacks your ass and flops your skirt down, pulling you back upright. “I’m just fuckin with ya, kitten. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna pull anything shady on you this time. Except for the murder part, of course. Speaking of which--”

He presses the knife harder against your neck and drags it just enough to barely break the skin. Your stomach drops with disappointment in more ways than one. You need to stall. Maybe the hatch is still open… or an exit... Feeling braver than you ever have in this awful place, you guide the knife down to your chest and look at him with pleading eyes.

“Fine. Do it. One more lamb to the eldritch slaughter, yeah? Just make it quick. _Please_.”

For once, he’s silent. The wind howls. The hatch can’t be far, you can hear that hollow echo. Maybe he’ll relent. Maybe he’ll let you have it if you just-- 

Your mouth fills with blood. 

“Mmgh, I… I really thought that would make you… let me g--” the rest of the sentence gurgles out as the knife sinks down to the hilt. His other hand brushes your hair back over your ear and caresses your cheek. 

“Oh, honey… _that_ was your plan? I knew you were a bit naive, but _wow_.”

Your thoughts aren’t coherent enough to register the insult. No, your vision hones down into a fine point until it’s nothing, and all you’re aware of is warm arms around you. His voice is quiet and gentle now, all that lust muted; he sounds nearly reverent. You’re almost gone, and it feels like coming home.

“Sorry little lamb, you offered me your throat… did you really trust the big bad wolf not to bite?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news: there's more of this  
> bad news: it gets worse


	3. just desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't let it happen again. Next time, you'll be ready. Next time... will there even be a next time oh god please let there be a next time

At a certain point, death gets boring. It’s still painful, certainly; but as with anything you’ve done thousands of times, it becomes as mundane as brushing your teeth. A routine. Death throes become muscle memory. 

But with Ghostface… it’s the only time you feel like you’re being _murdered_. It feels personal.

You can’t believe you let it happen again. You can’t believe you _wanted_ it to happen. By now you’ve realized it’s not just you; the Entity is playing a sick game of matchmaker. _You and Ghostface sittin in a tree. K-I-L-L-I-N-G._

Or maybe it’s just easier to think that. But the twitching in your brain, that awful pull you feel in your core when you’re around him, _not being able to fucking cum_ \-- it’s somehow worse than getting your leg snapped in half by bear traps. Thoughts about your encounters with _him_ crowd your skull like tumors. Really, what else is there to think about? Despite yourself, it excites you.

You decide that you can’t keep doing this. You feel like you’re going crazy; you feel like you already _went_ crazy. It’s exactly what he wants, what the entity wants. The next time you see him, you’ll be ready. You start to plan.

Jane and Laurie rest up against a tree in silence, eyes closed, hands intertwined. You feel a deep pang of jealousy at the relaxed rise-and-fall of their chests in sync; lovers attuned, sharing rarefied air.

“Hey. Sorry to ah, interrupt.”

They both open their eyes with a start, and their faces relax when they realize it’s just you. Still, they self-consciously pull their hands back to themselves, exact mirrors of each other in a way that betrays their intimacy more than handholding ever could.

“I was wondering… you know that thing you do where you stun the killer to get away?”

Laurie smirks. “I know of it.”

“Does it hurt them?”

“Big time.”

“Could you… could you teach me?”

They grin wickedly, twins again. “About damn time.”

* * *

The bell sounds. It’s time to go. You’re holding a full toolbox, not bad.

You’re always relieved to wake up in a normal outfit, like the clothes you wore when you crossed over into this world: torn black jeans, old white t-shirt, boots, your hooded bomber jacket. But more often than not, it’s some skimpy little number that’s uncomfortable, bright, and too revealing. The insidious set dressing of hell. This is the case today, and it’s ridiculous.

The low cut dress barely covers your ass, with a tear at the seam that exposes your waist. Even worse are the leather straps that wrap around it, which you realize are straight up bondage gear. An O-ring choker. Fishnets. At least you have the knee-high combat boots, but it’s little comfort considering the rest. Ugh, and it all smells faintly of rubbing alcohol.

Feng wolf whistles. “Damn girl, you look sexy.”

“I _look_ like a cheap whore,” you say, trying to pull the skirt down so you feel less exposed.

“But a _sexy_ cheap whore!” There aren’t any mirrors here, but you’re sure you probably look… nice, at least. It’s flattering, even your-- wait a minute.

“I… Feng, are my…” Ugh. What an embarrassing, awful question. “Are my boobs bigger?”

“Are they? Maybe it’s just the dress-- no-- wait?” Feng scrutinizes your chest for a long moment. “Yo, Kitty-- do her titties look bigger to you?”

“Yup,” Kate says, without hesitation. Feng shrugs at you. “Congrats?”

“Lucky me.”

Something scratches against your (larger than usual??) chest. Looking down, you find a folded scrap of paper tucked into the dress. You turn away from the others.

> _For my special girl._

The handwriting is frantic chickenscratch in blue pen, barely legible. It was clearly written with a heavy hand, some letters pressing holes through the paper. For a moment you consider tossing it into the fire, but curiosity gets the best of you. You unfold the paper with a pit in your stomach.

> _Hi princess._
> 
> _I had_ so _much fun with you the other night. Boss lady says I can’t see you for a while because I’ve been naughty, but it was worth it._ So _worth it. I can’t stop thinking about how your blood stained your pretty little lips red… how you pressed into my arms, so greedy for my touch, pretending you weren’t… your big eyes staring up at me, all wet, and then that sparkle leaving them as you died… So_ _delicious_ _._
> 
> _I know you’re thinking about me too. I know you can’t help it. I know the thought of me touching you is the only thing that turns you on. And I know even that can’t get you off. But I know what can. I’ll give you a hint: it starts with an M and ends with an E. I know you want it. Come with me… (or rather, cum with me?)_
> 
> _Haha. Sorry for the wordplay. Writer at heart. Couldn’t resist. Speaking of which, you reminded me of this bit of a poem I remember from way back when by this chick Maryanne? no… Muriel something or other. Was always a real killshot with the ladies (metaphorically speaking. but then also literally, LOL). Here goes:_
> 
> “Answer the men walking toward death
> 
> leaping to death meeting death in a kiss
> 
> able to find of equilibrium none
> 
> except that last of hard stone kissing stone”
> 
> _No clue what it means, but pretty hot, right? Wanna meet death in a kiss, baby?_
> 
> _Anyway. I gotta go. Can’t wait to see how cute you look in that sexy new outfit I picked out for you, so in the meantime I left you a little present ;)_
> 
> _xoxo, your secret admirer_

At the bottom there’s the shape of red lips, like the paper was kissed with lipstick. 

You realize it’s blood. 

What a nightmare. Of course he’s behind this. You tug your dress down again, even more self-conscious now. You glance at the letter again. A present? You look down at your outfit. Nothing else in the pockets. You notice a faint, crunchy stain on the front of the dress. Jesus christ. 

You reflexively throw the letter into the fire out of disgust. In a far corner of your brain, you instantly regret it. No. No, it’s gross and weird. Why would you want to keep that?

Your mind flits back to the kiss on the letter. It bothers you how full the mark was… how plump his lips must be. Before you have any more time to think about it, the smell of rotting meat overwhelms you. You’re in the packing plant, surrounded by viscera-- and a generator, that’s a blessing at least. In the distance, there’s the sharp scream of the Nurse whipping through the air. _Here we go again._..

Cannibal. Wraith. Cowboy. Spirit. Wraith again. Other cannibal. Clown. Doctor. 

It all blends together. Still the stupid outfit, but the boots at least are nice; great for kicking. You get hacked to pieces by the spirit, which you definitely deserved-- you’ve been playing like a real bitch today (“today”, haha, remember time?) and got her good in the face; you could taste her fury on the death blow. You try to do that stabby trick Laurie showed you on the Wraith and he just laughs at you. Maybe it was laughing, something like that. Your success rate on that one is not going well. 

You try the locker thing; again, no luck. Instead you get brained with one of the clown’s bottles and end up on the ground, head gushing, intoxicated with the gas immediately; your muscles go golden and slack, and as you’re dragged to the hook your head swims with technicolor thoughts of greedily taking Ghostface in your mouth, his cum on your face, and you die on hook as you try unsuccessfully to touch yourself with your broken arm.

You’re positive Bill saw that one happen, and are grateful when he doesn’t bring it up.

You’re in your normal outfit again, a strange cocktail dress another, an ill-fitting nurse’s uniform for some reason, hiking gear. Your hair turns a strange shade of purple, then back to normal once more. You find yourself drifting in and out of lucidity. Paranoid. Dissociated. Obsessive.

Eventually, god knows how long its been, you wait around for a trial with the others, back in the dumb bondage outfit again. Kate and Feng were right. Boobs: definitely bigger. You feel that scratching again and pray it's just a tag. As expected, it’s another letter, somehow messier than the last.

> _why did you throw my letter away :(_
> 
> _i’ll admit it: that hurt my feelings. gonna have to punish you good for that one. did you hate the poem that much? you really struck me as the slutty librarian type but i could be wrong. guess you’re just normal slutty (which i like). on the bright side i got some great snaps of u in that dress. excited to show you. excited 2 see you soon. excited :)_

You flip the note over. There’s more.

> - _3 dead w nurse. she survives proud of her see panties under dress during jump into hatch_
> 
> _-all dead gets found right away by billy chainsaw in half really nice_
> 
> _-sitting 2 close to big guy by the fire. laughs @ his jokes. rip his guts out nxt time_
> 
> _-all dead. cute w purple hair. trapper looking at her weird can’t have that must do something about that_
> 
> _-entity says im not allowed to watch anymore punishing me why why why_
> 
> _-heard hag tore her throat out wish it was me wish it was me_
> 
> _-i get all the little blonde girls and kill them immediately and i dont even care anymore boring who cares_
> 
> _-keep listening for her scream can’t hear it driving me crazy_
> 
> _-whats the point i wish entity would let me die_

It would be sweet if it wasn’t so fucking creepy. 

No, you actually didn’t think that, it upsets you so much that you want to scream and cry and you hate him and you throw it in the fire again and it’s not still burning a hole in your pocket and you don’t read it over and over while you’re touching yourself and you don’t think about his mouth on you and the twitching in your brain is all the time and now you like it and you definitely dont think you’re as bad as him now no you don’t think about him you don’t think about him at all you don’t think about him ever never again not all the time not all the time not the only thing you can

maybe you’ve finally gone crazy

maybe this place broke you 

maybe that’s good

* * *

You move through matches like a beast. You’re good now, better than you ever were. No more hiding. You’re not a coward. You still get destroyed, but now you fight. You run. You feel like an animal, pure adrenaline, fight or flight-- both, both, you’re nothing but muscle and sinew, sentient meat; barely sentient, meat

Your brain always feels like it’s cracked in half now. Entity always laughing. The others worry about you but don’t ask. Look at you funny. Always did. They never liked you. Nobody likes you. Nobody but--

Your hair stands on end. It’s him this match, you’re sure of it. Hey, you’re not broken. You’re normal. Brave face. Strong will. Remember the plan. You’re ready. You can fix this.

You work on a generator next to Meg with laser focus, no burn, no fuck-ups; just power, surging. The moment his eyes land on you, you feel it. You look up just in time to see him stab Meg in the back. She hits the ground. He doesn’t seem to care, eyes on you.

“It’s been too long. Where you been hiding, princess?”

Something about being near him tangibly again feels like getting drenched with ice water; the reality, not the fantasy, not the memory of his touch; no, you can feel the blade already, feel it in your gut. For once, you’re lucid, and you’re scared.

“I’m not doing this shit today, man,” you call as you throw yourself over a vault in the other direction. _Whose voice is that? Is that mine?_

He throws Meg on the nearest hook and she cries out, goes limp. He finds you immediately.

“Not your decision to make. You’re coming with me, baby.”

You beckon him forward. 

“You want it?” He advances on you, knife raised. "Then come get it." Just one more step... 

You throw the pallet down. He growls and stumbles. “But you’re gonna have to catch me first.”

And with that, you book it, heart racing. Your mind is sharp. Luck is on your side. Just get out of here. Save yourself the heartbreak. Don’t give him what he wants. Don’t get what you want.

Someone else saves Meg, you can’t risk it. You fix an entire generator by yourself in a fury, despite the dress hiking up over your thighs as you do so. You find Kate crying, gash in her side. Patch it up quick, quick. Another generator. Jake’s dead. 

Kate chased, can’t let her die, can’t let her-- you have an idea. You whistle, both fingers in mouth, and there’s no way he doesn’t hear it. You seat yourself up on a tall rock so he can see you. He’s there in an instant.

“Hey,” you say, faking casual.

“Well, well, well. You rang?”

You pull a leg up, leaning your head on one knee, legs spread slightly. Elevated above him, his head level with your hips, you feel somewhat powerful; safe, for now. Despite the mask, you feel his eyes, as intended, go straight to your exposed panties. Tilt your head back, flip your hair. Throw the pout. Give him the ‘come hither’ eyes.

He closes the distance between you, sheathes his knife. He grabs the front of the fishnets and tears the crotch away in one motion, threads splintering into broken spiderwebs across your thighs. Then he does something that surprises you: he tips the mask up. From where you’re sitting, you only see the top of it sticking out from under the hood, can’t see what’s beneath it, _want_ to see what’s beneath.

He sinks his teeth into the exposed flesh of your thigh and there’s that hard blossom of sweet pain as he tongues the mark. He moves further up, does it again, harder this time. You’ll let him have a taste of it; you reward him with an obscene (but _genuine_ ) moan, a sharp intake of breath. Lips as plush as the kiss on the letter, tongue swirling, something sinful about having his mouth, that bare skin, that _stubble_ , on you. Marking you. Further up. Incisors nearly breaking skin, sharper with every bite. He presses thumbs into the bruises, moaning gently in response to your breathy hiccups of pleasure. Don’t lose yourself in it. Can’t. More kisses, licking stripes up your skin, greedy, closer, _closer_...

Another gen pops and with a truly stunning amount of self-control, you place the dirt-caked heel of your boot against his forehead and push him, hard. You hop to your feet and dart away, weaving between obstacles, breaking line of sight, arousal still coursing through your legs as you run. You stop to catch your breath, heart thrilling at the shredded tights and obvious dark bruises blooming across your thighs. 

You hope no one saw that, but the idea of the others seeing the marks on your legs makes your stomach flip. Generator. Get hit, get away. Meg, dead. Kate bleeding again, fix her, get her away from you, too loud, hush, he’ll find you. You hide, a coward again.

It’s only a matter of time: Kate falls, goes on the hook, her life nothing more than bait to draw you out. Can’t be alone with him again though, you have to be a hero, at least try, at least get her _out_ of here-- 

He grabs you by the collar as you’re halfway over the vault, yanking you backwards into him. He pulls an arm tight around your throat in a headlock. He pets your hair. His voice is giddy, wheezing from running, arousal, surely. The bell tolls. Kate, gone. Fuck.

“You’re a bit of a tease, aren’t you? Think you can just get away from me like that?” 

You giggle through your crushed windpipe. “Yeah, actually, I think I can. I really do.”

Tighter. Light-headed. Hot. Hysterical. “You’re getting awfully mouthy with the man holding a knife, cupcake.”

“So what if I am? What are you gonna do about it?”

He lifts you up onto his shoulder with no resistance and slaps your ass. “Plenty.”

He walks with purpose, footsteps heavy, clearly aiming for the basement. God knows what’ll happen to you down there. You don’t struggle. You just shake the shard of wood hidden up your sleeve down into your hand, flush with relief that you didn’t just fumble it to the ground altogether this time. Laurie’s voice echoes in your head.

_Some of them will know it’s coming. You just gotta hit 'em when they’re least expecting it._

“Hey ghostie,” you whisper hoarsely. “I got a present for you, too.” 

Before he can respond, you drive the stake into his back with both hands. It makes a satisfying crunch as it plows into him, and it makes an even more satisfying sound when he screams. It sticks out of his back, bleeding, his blood on _your_ hands for once. You drop to the ground and scramble back up.

_And then run like hell._

So you do, and your legs hurt from how hard you’re pushing them, how sore the bruises are, the cuts and scrapes from the vaults and pallets aching. _His blood on your hands_ . Shouldn’t like that shouldn’t feel good you’re just like him _you want more_

You can’t find the hatch anywhere, you know he’ll find it first, you just know it. Have to be smart. Think, think. Jake’s toolbox is busted on the ground, tools everywhere, wrench on the ground, interesting. Idea. 

Wrench in hand, you smash it against anything that’ll make a sound: wood, rock, tree. You listen for footsteps and throw yourself into the nearest locker. He comes into view, pleased, so pleased.

“Show’s over, baby. I got you cornered.”

Alright, almost. You take a deep breath. Just like Jane taught you… three… two… one… 

You burst out of the locker and nearly knock him to the ground. Like you practiced, you quickly shove him into the open locker while he’s stunned, slam the doors shut, and cram the wrench you had in your other sleeve through the handles. You did it. You can’t believe it, but you did it. You laugh. Dog in a muzzle. Lion in a cage. Tamed. 

"Oh, it's my turn to gloat now, you motherfucker. I can't believe you fell for THAT.” 

He does a muted slow clap from inside the locker. “I gotta hand it to you-- it was a very clever trick, princess. You wanna let me out now so we can have some fun?”

You scoff. “No, I think I like you better in there. Much better, actually. You’re almost tolerable.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve been really looking forward to making you squeal. I had all sorts of things planned for us… are you sure you don’t want me to come out and play with you? Maybe if you’re _really_ good I can lick your pretty little cunt. Would you like that?”

“Shut up,” ( _your brain is melting like sorbet on a summer sidewalk come on man hold it together_ ), “Shut up, you pathetic piece of shit. I’ve got you right where I want you.” It feels so good to have him trapped, make him feel helpless, at your mercy. You feel a surge of confidence, and all that pent up anger comes pouring out with venom.

"Pathetic creep. You fucking," you search for the right words with absolute relish, "Spineless little bitch. You spend every day chasing and deadlifting buff dudes twice your size, and you get tricked by a twig of a girl in a miniskirt because you’re just that desperate to huff her panties, huh? I mean, writing me _love_ letters, seriously?” 

"You fucking slut. You are sooo, so fucked when I get out of here.”

“Haha. Good luck with that.”

He bangs uselessly at the doors, and there’s the sound of metal fiddling as he tries the mechanism on the handle. A hollow clang. Another. Another, but the metal of the door splits slightly, the glint of his knife sticking through. He tries it again, but it won't puncture.

“It’s at times like these where I’m really wondering what your insides look like, you know?”

“Yeah, I bet you are. Too bad you won’t get to see them.”

He goes quiet. No more clangs, bangs, words. 

“Boy, you give up easy. You're a disgusting little worm, you know that?"

Silence again.

"... what else," he finally says, voice strained.

There’s a long groan from the locker and you notice the metal is shaking slightly. Wait.

"Are you… _are you jerking off!?_ "

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grunts, clearly jerking off. 

Holy shit he has a humiliation thing. _Interesting_. 

"God you're gross. And you made fun of _me_ ? Please. I was drugged, what's your fucking excuse? All I did was shove you in a locker and call you names and you start beating your meat like a horny teenage _loser_."

As it turns out, you might also have a humiliation thing.

“Don’t you want to join me?” he growls, and it goes right to your clit. _You do, you do._

“Remind me which one of us came all over the other’s clothes? Oh, yeah, right, that one was you. Pass.”

“I can do it again, if you want, if you let me out.”

You're getting braver. You're gonna pay for this, you're sure of it, but right now you just feel so... powerful. You ignore him.

The hatch is right beyond that wall. You can just leave him there. You can just go. But you can’t help but twist the knife harder. 

“Y’know, maybe the entity should have made _me_ a killer instead. Bet I'd be good at it. Better than you. See how _you_ feel getting chased around in a skimpy little number by a psycho with a knife. No mask for you to hide behind. I’d cut you up, watch you bleed. Then I'd get to see your stupid face and the fear in your eyes when I slaughter you like the pig you are."

There’s a long, shaky groan from the locker that you feel prickle up your spine. You should have known that would do it for him. _And for you_ _you’re just like him just like_

“Yeah, keep going. Tell me how you’d do it. _Let me out._ ” 

You want to let him out. You _want_ to see what happens. You desperately wish you were trapped in there with him. For a moment, you consider it. It would be so easy. Then you think about how your last few meetings have played out, and those were when he was in a _good_ mood. You suddenly have a better idea. 

"Are you close?" you coo, face up against the slats in the door. 

He keens in a way that tells you he's right there.

"Good."

It takes all of your strength, but you throw your body weight against the locker until it hits the ground with a CRASH. He yelps. You're pretty sure you've dislocated your shoulder. 

You kick the locker a few times for good measure. "How's that feel, you little bitch? Who's the stupid slut now?" 

You give the front of the locker one last kick and sprint towards the howling of the hole in the ground. He yells some choice words through the metal that you can’t really hear over the blood pounding in your ears. And then you're falling, and you're laughing, the entity is howling, and it's the first time in this hellscape that you've felt anything close to _control_.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am simply having a Normal one
> 
> ps. poem is from The Lover by Muriel Rukeyser and I can't find it online for some reason which sucks because it's great. i am sorry your only exposure to it will be in this bloody, cum-stained filth 
> 
> pps. will they ever fuck? will she finally get that spooky dick? how many times will this bitch abuse that poor semicolon? will this just turn into ~ghostface shows you his knife collection softly spoken picks the knife he'll kill you with asmr~? IS ANYONE EVER GOING TO FUCKING NUT? tune in next *really loud truck passes so you can't hear me* for another exciting update
> 
> ppps. the entity is a metaphor for my antidepressants


	4. devils and heathens alike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You bested one of her own. The entity would like a word with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a nice friendly chat with spider bitch
> 
> [cw: not for the normal depraved sex reasons, but for dissociation/unreality stuff]

You fall.

you keep falling

you fall for so long you become frightened. the momentum of the drop whips away any lingering feelings of arousal or victory. It’s hot yet cold at the same time, freezing and scorching. you’re not sure if you’re falling anymore, certainly can’t feel anything, it’s not like you can see what you’re falling past; not like you can see anything at all, including your own body ( _is it even there?)_

and then, it isn’t a sound but a vibration, a rumbling that comes from the marrow of your bones that splinters them into pieces with every word.

**_YOU_ **

it howls, the force of its rage disintegrating the cells of the broken mass you used to call a body. 

> _what is this_

**_BROKE THE RULES_ **

> _what?_
> 
> _what’s wrong?_
> 
> _mad that I beat one of yours for once?_

**_PUNISHMENT_ **

> _what are you gonna do, kill me?_

**_PUNISHMENT_ **

> _what ELSE could you possibly do to me. you took everything_

**_PUNISHMENT_ **

> _I HAVE NOTHING LEFT TO TAKE_

**_WRONG_ **

in a dark flash you have no body or mind left with which to feel pain; ego death, identity erased, but you now know all at once that the pain of the flesh is not pain at all but a distant shadow of _this_ , 

this tidal wave of anguish wracks your awareness until it _is_ your awareness, seeing both all and nothing through the tight infinite pinpoint of pure cosmic misery, 

**_DO YOU SEE_ **

> _no i dont want to please no more please pl_

you see time from the fourth person and it shatters, you feel the timeless sick of relentless entropy, feel the slithering mass of the dark cancer consuming the body of the old god, of you, of everything, joylessly penetrating the crust of reality, the same pain over and over past present future dripping suffering onto itself forever, 

**_DO YOU SEE_ **

> _yes i see im sorry yes_

**_MINE_ **

> _yes_

**_MINE NOW_ **

> _ill do anything you want_

The fabric of nothingness folds in on itself, tearing, passing through, reintegrating, and with a harsh flash you’re you again, ripped out of nonexistence, something physical once more; an animal that feels pain, all of it, all at once. You fall to your knees and vomit sludge, flowers, vestigial organs, promises you made to the universe. You clutch at the earth with trembling fingers, sobbing, terrified of falling upwards into nothing again.

The false moon rises over the clouds, and you are grateful to your god for what the half light brings: the gift of flesh, of being. 

There was so much left to take.

* * *

You find yourself almost immediately in a trial, and are too stunned to realize. You spend several minutes stumbling around like a newborn deer. It’s so dark, you can barely see. For a moment you’re afraid you’re back in that _place_. That awful non-place. But no, there are trees, flowers even. A hot summer rain falls on your back, crickets and cicadas purring. There’s a wet, thick shifting around your skull and shoulders. 

Generator, find a generator. You follow the sound of mechanical chugging until you come upon one almost entirely shrouded in vines. A girl you don’t recognize crouches next to it. You move to introduce yourself, to help. She whips her head up to look at you, doe-eyes huge, and runs. 

You have a glimmer of recognition, you know her shape; a sister, a friend, can’t quite place it. Why did she run? The killer must be nearby, she had to have noticed before you, the blade could slice through you at any moment--

There it is: you catch the reflection of a horrible beast watching you from a pool of water, and you run. You’ve lost them, good. It’s something new, something awful. Within moments it’s back, closer, just staring. You’re frozen with fear, trying to comprehend the shape of the creature. 

No, _no_ , oh god, it’s _you_. 

You were put back together, but you were put back _wrong_. You see in monochrome from one slitted eye, the other a hollow, smoking socket. The snakes grafted to your skull hiss and twist, nip at your burned skin. You’re a monster.

 _Maybe the entity should have made me a killer_. The voice is an ancient girlish whisper in the corner of your mind. It is not your voice, not anymore. No matter. Work to do. 

There’s a rustling through the lush foliage. Something sparks in your empty skull; fire, gasoline. Recognition: prey. Your legs move independently of your mind, a pull in your core dragging you towards a frightened animal. You hold a long, curved blade, and you want nothing more to see it buried in a soft, pliant chest.

You find the creature immediately, an old man wheezing, tripping over branches. Seeing his frightened face look back at you, there’s a flicker of recognition in the back of your mind. It dies like a flame extinguished. 

To your horror, you spit at your curved blade, coating it in a sickly yellow substance. The scythe drips poison, noxious. The burns on your melted skin are from your own venom. The distance between you and the man is closing rapidly. Your arm raises, the dripping weapon glinting in the moonlight.

_I don’t want to I won’t do it please don’t make me_

You feel yourself start to peel away from reality, flickering back into nonexistence, only the negative space of where a body was. A threat. With a surge of fear you know what you must do.

You bring down the blade.

He howls and crumples in a painful hunch. Your body surges with electricity. One more hit, one more. You bring the weapon down again and he falls to the ground, coughing. You automatically heft him onto your shoulder; he’s so light, so weak, nothing at all. Without thinking, you take him to a hook that juts from a gnarled tree and throw him up. 

The muscles in his neck jump frantically as he struggles, choking on his own blood, sputtering. You feel sick, nausea, head splitting under the weight of what you’ve done.

And then, like a switch flipped, your new god rewards you. Your body floods with a pleasure unparalleled, that scratches a thousand itches you didn’t know you had, a feeling that ignites you. Anything to feel it again. _Anything._

The world becomes a blur of leaves, screams, venom, the heady copper of blood pouring. Every slash, every hook, the entity prods at your organs; better than any drug, better than sex, better than anything, need _more_. The doe-eyed girl, the old man, the man shaped like a boy; all gone, transformed into something better, something holy, something not of the flesh.

When they float up to the sky, you feel a sense of peace you’ve never felt. She is so happy, so proud, so pleased; your god loves you, your god protects you, you are simply a vessel for her will and you want nothing more in this world than to be in her holy arms. 

There’s a faint whisper of blasphemy, as if the snakes are cooing to you: _what the fuck is happening what the fuck is happening this isn’t me i’ve become a monster i’m as bad as them this is so much worse than being killed i’m no longer burning in hell i am the demon i am the torturer i am the long arm of the devil put me back together put me back--_

You silence the sinful ramble. You will paint your repentance with the blood of the last still living, their sweat thick and trackable in the humid air. Clove, salt, leather, cigarettes; the scent is a solid mass. A shack in the distance, lights flickering. You close in.

He doesn’t see you, only his broad shoulders and greasy dark curls visible. 

A different feeling blooms in your chest. Not that animal feeling of the hunt, something else; something shifting and hot and new. This one, _this one_ , so different, so special, you can tell already: from the side you catch the kind of sharp jaw you just want to break. 

You want him to turn around. You want to speak. You want to tell him something awful, but you move your lips and no sound comes out. A lump sits at the back of your throat and you realize between those teeth, sharp teeth, _teeth you want to sink into his throat_ , you have no tongue.

You made a sound anyway, surely, because without looking back the man stands and runs with a fury the others didn’t have. You cannot let him escape, you have things planned for him. You didn’t even see his face. You want to see the light leave his eyes.

_no no this is wrong i don’t know how but i know him i don’t want to do this why does it feel like this please just let me die let me go_

Silenced again. Another rustle. Nearby. You can taste the victory in the air, so close, the claws in your mind goading you forward. The promise of riches untold, of pleasures never felt. But he’s faster, dexterous, a wild animal used to running, used to being chased. You grunt with frustration with every near miss, and know your chances are closing in. A distant echo, you can’t let him reach it, you just can’t, or you’ll be punished again. She’ll send you back to the--

You spot him, right there, and for a moment he finally looks back. A pretty face even from a distance, full of contradictions; something sharp yet soft, tired and alert, a scarred mouth grinning. He winks at you, then jumps.

The world goes dark, and the entity’s arms smother you. She allows you the pleasure again but tinged with pain, flagellation, disappointment. _Not good enough_. 

Your shape shifts, amorphous, undefined, until it’s gone, you’re gone, and you blink out of existence entirely.

* * *

Then you’re screaming, and you don’t think you can stop.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

A crowd of people surrounds you, blocking out the light. You can’t see their faces, only the edges. Perhaps that’s a relief, because your imagination provides the judgement and anger on their features so vividly you don’t think you can face the actual sight of them.

“I’m sorry,” you sob, flooded with shame, “I’m so so sorry, I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean to--”

“Whoa there girl, don’t be sorry. We all get left on the hook sometimes, it’s alright.”

This only makes you cry harder, gulping for air like a man drowned.

“But-- but I killed-- I was the--”

Bill, Kate, and Dwight’s faces swim into stark clarity, all of them scrunched up. They whisper amongst themselves, things you can’t hear, but words you feel; care, worry.

_They don’t remember. Did it even happen?_

You ride out the panic, their arms around you, hands rubbing and soothing. You sniff, and attempt to wipe away the emotion with your arm. It all retreats inside of you, tears gone, countenance flat. You try to speak and trip over your own tongue. You forgot what it felt like to have one. 

“Thanks, guys. Sorry. Just, entity fucking with my head a bit. Need some time to myself.”

They give you space and return to the fire. You still sit stunned on the ground. You stare at your hands, normal hands. You feel your hair. You touch your skin. You exist again, you’re yourself. But there’s something missing, something different; you don’t know what it is, but you don’t feel whole anymore. 

You were put together, but you didn’t get all the pieces back. You got _enough_ . But you feel parts of you out still out there, lost in the non-place. Like a faded lost pet poster rotting on a telephone pole, you repeat to yourself: lost, not _gone._

Your thoughts spiral downwards. Who are you again? Who are you, really? What makes you any different from the monsters? You did what she said, you did it when she asked, you did it _well_. And you did it again. And again. And again.

And you liked it.

It all haunts you, every horrible moment of it. The nothingness. The killing. The beast you had become. The fear on the faces of your friends, then strangers to you, nothing more than animals that were already dead. Just meat for the sacrament. But especially the one who got away, the one you barely saw. 

You remembered the rest, but not him. It’s on the tip of your tongue, you circle around it, but there was only the faintest glimmer of recognition. You saw his face, you’re sure of that, even if it was just for a moment. Why can’t you _remember_? Like a friend you only see in dreams, a face you saw once and can’t quite conjure, the details shifting. Was he someone new, someone you’ll meet soon? Someone from your life before? Someone who…

The memory clicks into place. The broad shoulders. The scent. The ghost of his face, something both beautiful and dangerous. A face you’ve only ever guessed at when you’re alone, breath hitching; one you only know as a mask. 

It was _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: haha this is gonna just be some sexy PWP knife smut haha  
> also me: IF THE ENTITY BANS ME FOR HOLLERING AT GHOSTFACE I WILL FACE GOD AND WALK BACKWARDS INTO HELL
> 
> anyway, begone thoughts; enter thots. i promise there is smut next time


	5. if i gotta sin to see him again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You fucked up. Time for your punishment. Let's play a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my horny opus. my magnum™ opus, if you will

You give up.

You put all that work into getting better, becoming a fighter, and now you couldn’t care less. You now know the true nature of this place, the thin hair that separates predator from prey, the infinite blackness that lies beyond this false hell, so why try? You’re nothing but a pawn in a game at the mercy of a vengeful god. You play along, you’re punished. You break the rules, you’re punished. You spend your time daydreaming about gloved hands on your skin; punished.

You stumble through trials in a haze. You have no drive to escape, but not much desire to get killed either. You drag your teammates down, and you feel their resentment building. You wonder if you’re depressed, which is funny. Can you even have depression in hell? But you have no choice but to keep going, keep fighting, keep dying. Anything to keep from going back to that _place_ , that _non-place._

You remember something you heard in your life before, something about experiments, dogs in cages, electric shocks; the ones who saw no way to avoid it and rolled over, bellies up, expecting nothing but inescapable pain. Learned helplessness, they called it.

You only remember this as your brain fries in the hot oil of your skull, the good doctor’s hands at your temples. He found you in a locker and you went willingly, a dog in a cage, belly up. You wake by the fire.

You think about Ghostface entirely too much and hate that it's all you know him as because it's just so god damn stupid. You don't think he knows your name either. But it’s more interesting than dwelling on suture techniques or the intricacies of generator repair or _the incomparable bliss that flooded you when you gutted your friends._

It’s easier to hope than to ruminate; to feed the crush, the obsession, the lust, whatever the fuck you want to call it. Be a glutton for the thought of his bare hands on your skin, to see him again, the fear of what kind of painful revenge he'll inflict on you because _you beat him_ . That fear mingled with excitement, that chemical reaction that only he sparks, and only he can extinguish. You don't want to see him, but you'll go crazy if you don't. You haven’t found any letters on you since last time. You wish you had kept the gross one, the one you burned. You wish you could hold on to something, _anything_. Just one thing.

You can’t even remember his face.

* * *

It's been a long time. Or maybe none at all. 

And then, and _then_ , you're in the woods. You don’t hear the heartbeat for so long that you get nervous. You don’t hear that strain of piano stings either, and you feel in your core that He's here. 

The stupid, horny part of your brain (maybe all that’s left, to be honest) wants him to find you immediately and do whatever he wants with you. But the shred of rationality left chides-- you know what you’re in for: pain, revenge, and knowing your luck, probably not the fun kind. It’s only a matter of time.

Feeling resigned to your fate, you climb into a locker, the dog in a cage once again. You don’t have the energy to try Jane’s trick, you just figure you can get some shut-eye before you get flayed alive or whatever. 

You hear footsteps, and sure enough, Ghostface appears in front of the locker within minutes, tapping the tip of his knife against his chin. Your heart swells and breaks at the sight of him. 

“Gee, I wonder where she went.”

He throws open the doors and brackets you against the wall with his arms. His voice is laced with venom, that dripping fake sweetness that makes you think of bleeding out. 

“Fancy seeing you here. But this trick ain’t gonna work this time, sweetheart.”

You can't keep the edges of your lips from quirking up. "Well, I wasn't exactly expecting it to."

"You've got some fucking nerve toying with me like you did last time. Thought you were gonna get away with it that easy? Do you think I’m that stupid? Whatever, babe, I got big plans for you. We’re gonna play a game, and no cheating this go around. You’ve been a cheeky little slut with all that teasing, and it's time for me to teach you a lesson, ‘kay?”

_Was infinite ego death and getting turned into a murderous monster not enough of a lesson?_

_Does he even know? Does he remember?_

There was a flicker of hope that maybe you could get _something_ out of this encounter, but that possibility seems to be fading rapidly. He pissed, and surely has something gross and decidedly unsexy up his sleeve. “Sure, whatever.”

“Splendid. Well, here’s the rules: you’re gonna run back to your little friends and pretend to help them out. But you’re gonna be my bait. Blow shit up. Do a sloppy heal. Give me intel. Get everyone killed, and you _might_ win a prize.”

You’re actually pretty good at doing all that by accident these days. Your moral compass shattered to bits in that endless void, so your primary concern is less with being complicit in the murder of your friends, and more straight dread at having to _try_ for once.

“And if I don’t, it’s torture, stabbing, choking, hooks, et cetera?”

“Bingo. Now, are you gonna behave for me?”

"Probably not. I mean, what are you gonna do, kill me? I've heard that one before."

He moves his blade up to your throat, something you're used to by now, something that goes straight to the base of your spine.

"D'you really think me and the old lady don't _talk_? You wanna take a one-way trip back to the fuckin’ abyss?"

No no no no no. The idea makes your stomach drop ten stories. You shake your head furiously against the knife, which is a stupid move that pulls out drops of blood, but you can't go back, you just _can't--_

“Okay, okay, fine, whatever you want. I'll do it.”

He traces the tip of his blade down your cheek. You shudder pleasantly and can hear the smirk on his voice as the edges of his anger soften.

“Now that’s what I like to hear. Oh, and I didn’t even tell you what the prize is yet.”

He moves his hands from beside your head and down to your waist. He picks you up, guiding your legs around his torso. He grinds his erection against your crotch. A whimper escapes your lips as his voice goes low and husky.

“C’mon baby, don’t you wanna play? If you do what I say, I’ll do _anything_ you want me to.”

Having his hands on you again wakes you up, sends fire across your skin. You lick your lips as you find yourself actually caring about something again. 

“... _Anything_?”

“Play the game and then we’ll see.”

A generator pops in the distance. He drops you back down and ruffles your hair. “What are you waiting for?” He slaps your ass as you walk away. “Get movin’, princess.”

Fuck going back to nonexistence, fuck your morals, fuck everything you know. That feeling you got when you were _something else_ , that feral thirst, nips at your heels like a hungry cat. You're completely selfish and there’s only one thing keeping you from getting what you want, and it's these fucks. Get rid of them.

Through the woods you find Jeff crouched next to a generator, working away in tense silence. You join him, hands shaky. You tighten a bolt on the carburetor a bit too loose, connect the frayed green wire to the wrong circuit. There’s a bright flash that sprays sparks into your faces. “Sorry,” you mutter, connecting the wrong wire again; another flash, a bang. Jeff shoots you a dirty look and sprints away, leaving his med kit behind in his haste. You bury it under some leaves, feeling disgusted with yourself.

He cries out in pain and hits the ground just meters from you. Ghostface looks over at you and does a dainty golf clap before picking him up. You run, caught between shame and excitement.

As you make your way around, not even bothering to be sneaky, there’s the sound of the bell tolling-- Jeff gave up. You don’t blame him. It’s probably because you’re a fucking idiot. A slutty fucking evil idiot at that. Then there’s Bill, searching through a chest in the shack. He finds a flashlight and tosses it towards you (you were always better with the aim than he was), and you miss it entirely. It hits the ground and shatters. “The fuck, kid.”

You shrug sheepishly and get on the generator with him. Same deal; you let him get a bit further with it, pistons pumping, to at least give him a fair chance before you ruin everything. You connect the red wire, blue wire, press your finger over the right (wrong) connection; bang. He grunts.

“If yer gonna fuck me here, at least buy me dinner first. Let me do my job and scram, kid.”

You scram, vaulting through the window as loud as possible, and within seconds hear him go down in the distance, screams and wet coughs echoing up from the basement. Feng’s around here somewhere, probably. Sure enough, you hear them scramble up the stairs and scatter.

Feng goes down, then on the hook. Bill, in his frustrating tenacity, saves her, heals her, full health; fuck. You halfheartedly work on another generator, feeling guilty. At least if you make a racket here, you can get the heat off of them for a bit. Gives you some plausible deniability if they’re able to turn it around. Save yourself from the shit you’ll get around the fire from your friends ( _friends? ha)_ later. Hold the last shreds of your dignity close. Sure enough, after a few miniature explosions, you look over to find Ghostface crouched, watching you. He tuts.

“What did I say about cheating?”

You shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

It’s the truth.

“That would be cute if I believed you. But you’re not getting jack shit until the others are gone.”

Right on cue, Feng and Bill pop another generator across the map. At least it worked. He advances on you, pulling you up and pushing you against the wall, hand tight on your throat; he presses harder than usual, choking you out in earnest this time. 

“Don’t be an idiot. Remember what it felt like to get taken apart? You really wanna do that again?”

Instead of struggling for air, y’know, like someone normal, your eyelashes flutter as you moan, trying to get any purchase on him, just to _touch_ him. He swats your hand away and pins it against the wall too, pressing harder.

“Yeah, nice try, doll. I got work to do. And if you’re not gonna take this seriously--”

He releases your throat and slashes across your chest. Your shirt splits open and the blood runs freely, staining what’s still intact.

You fall to the ground, clutching the wound and gulping down air. “You fucking _dick_ ,” you spit.

“Oh, in due time. You might want to take care of that first, though.”

He rolls you onto your back with a kick and places the tip of his boot against your exposed panties. He grinds the boot against you, the rubber and leather slick with blood. You can’t help it; your hips buck up against it.

He laughs and presses down harder, head tilted. “You’re so cute when you’re desperate.”

“Actually, hold still,” he murmurs, then there’s a flash, and he looks back down at the camera that came out of nowhere. “For posterity,” he says, and stalks away.

* * *

You limp around with unintentional tears in your eyes, absently thinking about his boot on your pussy; his hand on your throat. You hear a rustle in the bushes and Feng ushers you over to her. 

“Thanks for keeping him busy,” she whispers, opening her medkit. Haha. Busy. You feel his eyes on both of you from afar, scheming, lusting. 

Feng moves to join Bill on a generator, so you follow. You do what you’ve been doing and you all recoil from the flash of light, then Feng flicks you on the forehead and shoos you away.

“Girl, do us a favor and go make noise literally anywhere else if you’re gonna keep being such a frickin’ potato.”

“You heard the lady,” echoes Bill. 

_Your funeral_. You trudge back to the center of the map, feeling like utter shit as it becomes clear how evil you’re willing to be to get murderer dick, or at least to save yourself from disintegration. You don’t even know you’ll get either, is the thing. And that thought drives you crazy.

You don’t trust him, but you want to. Hope is a foreign feeling to you, but you cling onto it now like a raft on a sinking ship. Maybe by this point the weight of your sin will drag you down into the depths with it, but the pulse in your thighs tries to convince you otherwise.

You wander around the map, lightly tapping gens, breaking bones; impatient. Then you come across a corpse-- Bill’s corpse-- on the ground, and you realize Ghostface has carte blanche from the entity to kill as he pleases. That certainly doesn’t bode well for you.

Ah, shame about Bill ( _a shame? it’s your fault_ ), but the man sounds like he’s dying even when he’s not dying. It’s not that hard to track him down. The half smoked cigarette lying next to his corpse is almost funny, but you don’t want to admit that to yourself. You wonder if he has any more on him.

Without a hint of hesitation, you dig through the pockets of your friend’s body. Hating yourself entirely, you find a battered blue pack of some brand you’ve never heard of in his coat pocket. A few cigs rattle around inside. You clutch your prize to your bloody chest.

You listen to Feng’s distant screams with disinterest-- what’s more important is lighting this cig over a trash fire without going up in flames yourself. You sacrifice some singed hair, and finally the cherry glows. You take a long, slow drag. 

You might not be allowed to cum, fine, but at least you have this. Close enough.

You stroll around some more, savoring the rich tobacco. You’re not sure how long it’s been since you had one. You actually still aren’t sure how Bill manages to have one between his lips at all times. Where the fuck does he even get these? Can you find some… ?

The last bell tolls. Feng must have put up a fight. The hatch pops open next to you and howls. Lucky. But standing at the edge, you find yourself unable to jump. You sit, legs crossed and dangling down into the abyss. You ash your cig into the hole and take a deep drag. 

Suddenly the cigarette snaps out of your hand as a palm slips over your mouth, muffling a scream. Tendrils of smoke slip through his fingers.

“Congrats, baby. You did _so_ good. And waiting here for me all pretty, too.”

For a moment you worry he’ll flick it away. Instead, you hear the sound of fabric rustling and the cherry burning. There’s a shaky exhale, and his fingers thread into your hair possessively, tugging your head upwards.

He huffs. “God, I missed this.” 

“Yeah, me too.”

You’re not sure if you’re talking about the cigarettes or each other.

He gestures to the hatch with his boot. “You’re not gonna leave me, are you, gorgeous? Miss out on your prize?”

For a moment, you consider dropping, falling, escaping, so _easy_ , but you already know the answer. 

“I won’t. But you better make it worth it.”

“Mm, that’s what I thought. _Good_ girl.”

He continues to smoke his stolen cigarette, hand in your hair. He crouches behind you ( _fuck his mask must be up you could see his face you could just look_ ) and holds it back in front of your mouth. You pull on it as his fingers drag across your lips, dipping inside your mouth; graze against your cheek. You can taste him on the cig, swapping spit on the filter. You want _more_ , more than this.

He pulls it away and finishes it off, then deftly flicks it into the bushes. He stands and drags you up with him, guiding you away from the hatch but not closing it. 

“This’ll be here when we get back, alright? Now let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“As you know, I _do_ love to be a bossy little bitch. It’s like, my favorite thing-- aside from murder, I mean. But you gotta know when to turn it off, when to turn it on. See,” he hooks a finger through the O-ring in your choker and pulls you close. “Now you’re gonna get on your knees for daddy and I’m gonna fuck your tight pretty mouth until you choke.”

You start to drop to your knees immediately before he grabs you again. He laughs.

“I’m kidding, you’re _unbelievable_ , wow, you would just do it? Like that? See, this is why I like you. You’re so horny you’ll just roll with whatever.”

“I am _not--_ ”

He pulls your skirt up to peek at your panties.

“Yeah, you’re not convincing anyone, babe.”

He straightens your clothes back up and bops you on the nose, his voice less gravelly, more even. Cheerful.

“See, now we’re back, normal nice guy Ghostie. Anyway, we’re wasting time. Lemme get you alone so I can do terrible things to you. That sound good?”

You nod eagerly. No use pretending anymore. You have no idea where he’s leading you, but you’re desperate to get there as quickly as possible, and just--

You’re airborne and over his shoulder, like he’s taking you to a hook. Before you can say anything, he pats you and says “Relax, I’m not pulling any shit.” He moves with purpose. 

“I can walk,” you grumble.

“Nah, I like this better.”

Your stomach flips with every step from the constant threat of falling face-down into the dirt. Of course, you find this hot for some reason. Blood rushes to your head. Hanging upside down for so long is making you lightheaded, deliciously dizzy. Your hair falls around your face to hide the rest of the world.

The one thing you can see clearly is his ass. You never really had the chance to look before, considering that he always sees you first. You surprise yourself and grab it. 

He giggles. Doesn't say anything, just a giggle as he rubs a hand against your thigh. It isn't aggressive, or greedy; just soft. Fond. It moves further up, hooking a finger around the elastic of your panties.

“Well, you won’t be needing these anymore.” He pulls them down swiftly and tosses them aside. The air is cold on your ass, but you don’t mind.

You’ve been walking for a while, you have no clue where you are, he’s carrying you around like you’re nothing, and still somehow is able to stroke your legs and take off your panties at the same time. Considering how lean he is, that he’s not much taller than you are, it’s impressive. So _strong_. You just want him to manhandle you, throw you around; to struggle beneath him, completely overwhelmed. You speak up.

“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

“For a long time, yeah. What can I say? You’re impossible to resist. And now I get to touch you as much as I want. Like this.”

A finger curls into your pussy as the arm around your torso squeezes tighter. You gasp. He thrusts slowly, but his fingers hit you just right. You clutch at his back, feeling like you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff.

“Oh _fuck_ _yes please_ \--”

He pulls his fingers out-- you start to whine-- he slaps your ass, hard, then grabs and kneads the cheek painfully. 

“Yeah, you like it when it hurts, don’t you?”

You moan in response as he grabs harder, spreading you open.

“Who does this belong to?”

“You _, only you, please keep g--”_

He rewards you with a “good girl” and slides fingers in your pussy again. All of the purrs of “good girl”s are getting to you. Praise, humiliation, whatever; it’s attention from him, all for you. You make an embarrassing noise as he resumes at a relentless speed. 

“ _How does it feel to be the only one who gets to feel my hands when I’m not killing?_ ” 

Between the dizziness from being upside down, the sting from being spanked, his fingers, and _this_ , you’re so blissed out you’re not forming coherent words. You forget all about the void, getting your friends killed, where you’re going; all of it. You’re so close.

“I’m gonna, oh, ff-- _fuck--_ ”

He pulls out with a wet pop, followed by a spank so hard it startles you. "Did I say you could cum? Don't make me turn this car around."

The pleasure turns excruciating as it fades, the orgasm that was just out of reach fading into nothing but throbbing frustration. 

“Hey, you s- said anything I wanted, right? That’s what I want. That’s all I-- _please_...”

He scoffs. “I mean, yeah, but I didn’t say _when_ you could have it. I promise we’re almost there.”

“God, you are fucking _evil_.”

“Save the dirty talk for when we get there, yeah?”

You sigh heavily and try to get your head straight. You zone out, attempting and failing to ignore how distracting your body’s being. You both move upwards; stairs.

You suddenly make impact with something squeaky and yielding. You bounce up and down a few times, your head pounding from being upright again. The force of it rips the cut on your chest open again.

* * *

Your eyes adjust to the darkness. You’re in one of the houses in the dark suburbs you sometimes find yourself dying in, a room on the second floor, bathed in flickering red and blue lights. You didn’t think there were beds here, but sure enough: it’s a bed. A shitty, disgusting spring mattress on a wrought iron frame, but it’s a bed nonetheless. Ghostface looks down at you from the foot of the bed.

“Romantic, right?”

You smile, enjoying lying on something you forgot existed; feeling sensations you thought you’d lost. “Something like that, yeah.”

“Now then,” he says, grabbing you by the ankles and tugging you across the bed so violently that your crotch crashes into his. He’s _so_ hard. “Where were we?”

“Anything I want,” you say, breathless, propping yourself up on your elbows.

“ _Almost_ anything you want, yes.”

“Then I wanna see your face.”

He laughs. “Oh my god, are you serious? No gorgeous, that’s not even third base. That’s like, sixth base, _maybe_. Never base.”

Your heart sinks. Fine. 

“Your hands, then. Bare hands. You promised.”

“See, that one’s doable.”

He slides his gloved fingers into your mouth and you suck automatically. Copper, rust, leather, salt-- and the taste of your own pussy lingering. You wish it wasn’t just his fingers, you wish it was...

“C’mon baby, take em off,” he commands, and you get it. You pull the glove off his hand with your teeth. It dangles from your mouth stupidly until he snatches it back. You repeat the process with the other glove and can’t take your eyes off of his hands, his real hands.

Smooth, pale, big; his veins strike lightning across the backs. Waxing poetic about hands is not something you would normally do, but you want them on your skin so badly you can't help it. 

He suddenly shoves the gloves back into your mouth, both of them scrunched up, and secures the gag with rope from god knows where. You whine through the gag, blindsided by it.

“You said you wanted to feel my hands without gloves, right? Where else am I supposed to put them?”

_mmfmmmh._

“Sorry, what was that?”

mmmFFFMmMFMm.

“Oh, you want me to tie you up? You wanna be restrained? Totally at my mercy? _Helpless_?”

He procures more rope and has your hands tied before you can even attempt to struggle away. He loops them above your head and ties them to the rods of the headboard. You glare at him. This was not where you thought this was going.

"You're mine now. All mine."

He finally touches your skin, first a flat palm against your stomach; then he starts touching you everywhere, exploring, greedy to touch every part of you. He strokes your face, your thighs, your stomach; he grabs your waist, thumbs the crests of your hips. 

He pulls his knife out and you flinch. He gently places it at your sternum and cuts your bra in half. The cups fall away and he covers the mouth of his mask as your tits perk up. 

_“I couldn’t fucking stand only touching you through gloves_ ,” he growls, moving to straddle your body, grabbing your tits. “You’re so fucking _perfect._ ”

You thrill at the praise, how _right_ his hands feel, at how excruciating it is to not be able to touch him back. He pauses.

“Hm, the gag really suits you and your slutty little mouth, but I need to hear you. I wanna hear what I do to you.”

He rips the gag out, takes the gloves back. You take a deep breath and the words tumble out.

“Touch me. Take me. Use me. What you want is what I want.”

Not having much else mobility, you spread your legs as wide as they’ll go and look at him with pleading eyes. He glances down and shakes his head in wonder.

“Oh, kitten, now you’re just spoiling me.”

He moves his head downwards, you’re just _dying_ , and then he hesitates.

“Y’know, I-- I wasn’t going to do-- fuck it, I _have_ to-- shut your eyes.”

He tears one of the shreds of fabric hanging from his arms and ties it around your head. You grumble in protest as your vision goes black. Then there's that frantic sound of fabric rustling, of plastic hitting the floor hollowly. Mask off. _Mask off_. 

His weight presses down on you, muscles taut and strong. He grabs you by the hair, jerks your head to the side, and licks a stripe up your neck. He presses a deep kiss under your jaw that turns into a bite, incisors sinking in. His stubble scrapes your skin; you can feel his eyelashes fluttering. 

“You feel so good,” you breathe. “I haven’t felt anything good in so long, fuck.”

He surprises you by saying “Me neither,” before littering your neck with love bites. He tongues your collar bone. He moves away.

You try to gauge where he is, but can’t. When you aren't prepared for it: his mouth ghosts against yours, just barely touching. Soft. Full. An unplaceable divet that you guess is a scar, must be a deep one. You strain to catch his lips, but can’t quite make it. He continues to excruciatingly brush his lips past yours, speaking into your mouth:

“I want you so bad. I’m gonna fucking tear you apart.”

He fakes as if to pull you into a kiss and it's infuriating. "Do you want it?"

You breathe "yeah, yes," into his mouth, but he bites your lower lip then pulls just out of reach. 

"You can have a kiss at the end if you behave."

You whine. "What's the point of the fucking blindfold if you're not even going to--"

A hot, flat tongue lathes against your pussy.

You make an obscene sound and buck your hips unintentionally against his mouth. You feel like you're melting; a hot knife through butter.

His hands, his _bare_ hands, grip your hips to hold them still. "I said _behave_." 

"I... can't with your hands on me."

His knife drags across your mound, and the blood flows down hot and slick, making things unbearably wet. He shakes his head back and forth, tongue moving relentlessly against your clit; then back up to the fresh cut. He licks across the wound as he slides two fingers into you, the pleasure and pain becoming indistinguishable. His face must be covered in your blood; you want to see it _so bad._

You were never vocal, before; now, it's embarrassing. He pulls away, knife back to skating figure eights on your stomach while his other thumb circles your clit. His voice is heavy with arousal.

“Want me to tell you about the knife I’m cutting you with?”

You nod. You don’t care much, but humoring him means he’ll keep going, and it clearly seems he’s turned on by it.

“This is a fixed blade hunting knife, more commonly known as a bowie knife. The handle is genuine stacked leather. The quillon-- that’s this cross bit--” he drags it against you-- “Has a curve so I can have better control of the blade. It’s what you would call full tang, meaning that the steel runs all the way through the handle and up the shaft.”

You’re not really listening because now he’s tracing the tip around your nipples in lazy, excruciating circles. It's a feeling that makes your hips twitch.

“But most importantly, I polished and whetted it nice and _sharp_ ,” -- he purrs, dragging the tip down your sternum, leaving a thin cut in its wake-- “Just for you.”

You hear a noise that can only be him licking your blood from the blade. “You taste so good,” and you’re not sure if he means your pussy or your blood or both. He holds it against your lips. “Lick it.”

You do, mouth filling with metallic wetness. He slides it into your mouth, blade flat on your tongue. It makes you want his cock in your mouth more than anything. You would suck him dry, take it all, beg for more.

“Please fuck me,” you plead, rolling your hips against his. “This is all I can think about. I want your cock so _bad_.”

He groans, his voice breaking. “Yeah, you want me so bad you’d let your friends die? I know you wanted them to. Just so you could have me.”

“That’s not--” you breathe. “You made me, I can’t go back to-- you _threatened_ me.”

His lips are back against yours, his voice lowered to a growl. “Aw, sweetheart, do you really think I have the power to do that? You make it too easy.”

“Fool me once,” you mutter. Shame on you, etc. You hadn’t expected anything less, really. 

“You don’t think I remembered you, do you? I saw you take them all down. I saw how much you liked it. I know you saw me, and I know you still don’t even know what I look like. But I saw you.”

You squirm. God, you wish he hadn’t seen you like that.

“You got a taste for it, didn’t you? I could tell how much you wanted to kill me. What would you have done?”

“I’m not telling you. You shouldn’t have seen me like that. That wasn’t… that wasn’t me.”

 _“_ No, what did you want to do to me? I won’t fuck you unless you admit it.”

You grit your teeth. “Fine. I wanted to do everything you’ve done to me. I felt obsessed, crazy. I wanted to fuck with you, make you want me, then get rid of you like you were nothing. I wanted to cut you open, drink your blood… more than anything I just wanted to see your face, your eyes, and how afraid you were of me.”

“I’d like that. I almost wish I had let you catch me. Now you know how it feels, how bad I want you.”

“Yeah. It felt amazing and I’m horrible. Are you happy now?”

“ _So_ happy. My perfect, filthy girl.”

There’s a jingle as he takes off his belt, the successive pull through each belt loop. It’s fast, but not fast enough, you want it _now_.

He presses himself against your entrance and rubs, teasing, slick with pre-come, your blood, _you_ . He’s huge. The fire inside you blazes. Your skin screams. He takes it away and you want to cry. Quickly it’s back, pressing again, tip entering, _yes_ \--

… but it doesn't feel right. Chilled. Hard. Too hard. Something with a sharp edge presses against your clit as it goes deeper inside you and wait hold on

"Are you fucking me with your knife!?"

"...maybe."

"God you are such a fucking assh--" 

“Quiet.” He slaps you on the cheek and pumps the handle into you faster. The curved end makes you lose your train of thought. You dissolve into whimpers, face burning in the shape of his hand.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. _Do you know how many people I've killed with this knife, hm?_ Like the way it feels? " he asks. 

“That’s not-- I-I’m not turned on by that, it’s--”

Your hips betray you because you're rapidly humping into the knife like your life depends on it, clenching around it violently. He's going too deep, with each thrust you can feel the blade nick the area around your clit gently-- just barely enough to sting, not enough to break skin.

He pulls out the knife and ghosts the tip of the blade up from your clit, across your stomach, your throat, to right under your chin, where he holds it in that tiny hollow beneath so that when you swallow, it rolls against the sharp point dangerously.

He looms over you, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. 

“Alright love, I’ve teased you enough. I think we’re even now.”

He takes the knife away and cups your face in his hands, oddly tender. And then he kisses you. 

It’s deep and sexy, your tongues swiping against each other, slowing to lips barely touching, then back to hungry probing. He nips at your lips, each rake of his teeth pulling a moan out of you. His cock is still resting against your pussy, grinding slowly, getting harder. He’s moaning now too, a throaty noise, almost a hum. 

A bell tolls; there’s that metallic slam that jolts both of you out of the kiss. You feel the ground glow orange, heat radiating from the spreading cracks.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, panting. “She figured it out.”

“Should we…?”

“Fuck no, I’m taking you right now. Let it burn.”

Then he fully enters you, bottoming out with a groan. Your eyes are closed beneath the blindfold but they still roll back as he thrusts. _So fucking good._ His thighs slap against yours, sticky with sweat and blood. 

“Ugh you’re so _tight_ \--”

He presses down on your throat with his bare hands and your pulse jumps beneath his fingers. This is the best you’ve ever felt. You want to live in this moment forever: the heat from the ground warming your skin, the feeling that nothing matters except the craven sounds he’s making _because of you_ and his cock fucking you sweetly. 

The air is thick with heat, your skin burning, you’re both close with his cock twitching inside you. You start to pulse around him, you just want him to finish inside of you more than you’ve ever wanted anything. You have to be quick, the end is coming; _god_ only knows when you’ll get to see him again, to fuck him, to _feel_ again. 

“God you look so pretty when I’m fucking you,” his voice skips from a low growl to a giddy wheeze, then back. “I'm the only one who can make you feel like this, I'm all you have, you obey me, you belong to me. Are you gonna cum for me now? Cum for me, baby."

“ _Yes, yes, yes, ye--”_

The ground explodes with white fire. A black spike spears you through the chest, knocking him off of you. You’re consumed. Your limbs pop from joints, torn asunder, blood burning veins, cum, apocalypse, ash, 

oblivion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :-)


	6. it's a hit & run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been having nightmares.

In the morning, you woke up with slick, cold skin, chest heaving from a particularly terrible nightmare. Lost in the woods, bleeding, scared, _hunted_. As you blearily attempted to put the terror into words, the images slipped between your fingers like sand until they were gone entirely. 

But the feeling followed you through your shitty condo all morning like a ghost. On the other side of the extremely thin wall you heard your neighbor Brenda bustling in her kitchen, the smell of bacon wafting through your shared AC. Once she had told you she heard you yelling in your sleep, and you’ve been paranoid about making noise since. 

So you sit in your lecture frowning while the professor drones on about Euclidean geometry. You’re filling some compulsory credit, thousands of dollars for information you’ll never use. Your flip phone buzzes, a text from your boss reminding you in the most passive aggressive way possible that your shift starts at 4 on the dot. You were twenty minutes late _once_ last month and she refuses to let it go.

The professor advances a slide and for a moment, the harsh flicker of the screen jolts you back to your nightmare: darkness. Machinery sparking. Cold steel. You take a long sip of the coffee you smuggled in, your second cup this morning. You really need to stop falling asleep to horror movies. Probably should lay off the caffeine while you’re at it; lately your anxiety has been spinning in your head like a hamster on a wheel. 

After 45 minutes that feels like eternity, _(_ a small voice in the back of your head whispers _idiot idiot you don’t even know what that word means yet)_ you rush from class to your crappy old Honda Civic. Your bag crunches against the broken jewel cases littered across the floor of your car. There goes _Good News For People Who Love Bad News._ You don’t find the irony very funny. In lieu of CDs scratched to oblivion, you turn on the radio. Solemn voices talk about a breaking story, something depressing, something about a gory double homicide upstate. You change the channel.

Your boss gives you shit as you trudge in and you bear it with a forced smile. _Mrs. Doubtfire_ loops on the master AV for the third day in a row. You unpack and alphabetize the new releases, sifting through the critically-acclaimed dreck that keeps hitting theaters lately. You’ve been going to the second run theater by your place that’s always empty a few times a week, catching up on all this bullshit months late with a half-melted slushie. Sometimes they play classics. It’s mind-numbing, but it’s something to do. 

At one point you actually felt excited about movies, but you’ve slumped into a depressive haze so thick you can’t muster much of anything anymore. You keep chasing that dragon anyway. It’s the closest thing you have to a hobby.

You clean the employees only bathroom that you regularly have to let patrons in to use, which is against policy. But one time a guy pissed right on the floor (which of course became Your Problem) after being denied access so your boss forces you to hand over the keys, but only if someone asks. 

You run down the list of renters with past-due titles with the phone in the crook of your neck, leaving dozens of voicemails you know they’ll ignore. You’ll never see those DVD’s again, and will have to reorder them in due time once enough people bitch about not being able to rent _Tootsie_. You wish you could quit, but hawking movies to geriatrics is preferable to bussing tables. You guess. 

The funny thing (well, “funny”) is that you had never been this depressed before. You don’t even have any reasons to _be_ depressed, for fuck’s sake. 

You’re not sure what happened. One day you felt fine, and the next an awful fog had rolled over you in the night and you woke up broken, watching life through a thick pane of glass. You’ve had a good life, all things considered. Your parents are normal, loving. You’re on track to graduate in the spring, your rent’s cheap, your job is a mostly tolerable level of crappy, your (admittedly few) friends care about you a lot-- you grapple for more positives-- you’d never admit it, but you’re sort of smart, funny, and conventionally attractive. 

_So why are you so fucking miserable?_

You started taking Prozac last year. It doesn’t really help, but you take it religiously just the same. Over the past few months, things have gotten worse. The insomnia kicks your ass. You have no appetite for anything other than trash late at night. You flake on your friends to lie on the couch and watch reruns. You cry all the time. You find yourself spacing out constantly, detached from your body, the world. You had never really liked alcohol but now you drink too much, and you drink alone. You’re coping, you tell yourself. The world didn’t change, you did.

Something you can’t quite put a finger on just feels so _wrong_. 

You’re doing it again. You’ve been spacing out while wiping down scratched discs. A young guy with broad shoulders you’ve never seen before approaches you. You try to turn on the customer service chirp but can’t quite muster it.

“Hi there, how can I help you today?”

“Sorry if this is an odd question, but you guys don’t have any like, _weird_ shit, do you? We don’t have Blockbusters where I’m from.”

Not again. It’s always the same with these creeps: when you tell them you don’t carry _Gushing Granny’s Gaping Gash VII_ (or whatever) they pivot to hitting on you instead. It’s usually old dudes, not guys your age. You’re pretty done with today. You want a drink. You force a smile.

“Of course sir-- you’ll find the adult videos in the curtained-off area right behind the kid’s section. Free tissues.”

He cocks his head. You lower your voice so your boss doesn’t hear you. 

“No, dude, we don’t have porn, this is a fucking Blockbuster _._ ”

The guy laughs, the deep scars across his mouth quirking upwards. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, I must sound like a pervert. I didn’t mean ‘weird’ as in porn, I meant ‘weird’ as in… like, arthouse. Splatter flicks. Y’know. Embarrassing film school dropout shit.”

Aaaaaand now you just feel like a bitch.

“Oh. Well. _I’m_ sorry, we just get a lot of-- guys come in here looking for that stuff all the time, and I thought you were…” You trail off and laugh nervously. 

“Wait, do people really still try to rent porn? Do they not know about the internet?”

You laugh more genuinely. “I guess not. So we don’t have the actually good stuff, but let’s see if we can’t find you something.” 

You make sure your boss isn’t looking and hop over the counter. The guy puts his head in his hands. The hinges of his thick-rimmed glasses squeak faintly. 

“I really hope you don’t think I’m a pervert.”

“Of course I do,” you wave him forward. “Follow me.”

You show him to a corner shelf labeled “uncategorized.” The shelf is a baffling array of DVDs ranging from _Mulholland Drive_ to _But I’m A Cheerleader,_ for some reason. The gay reasons, probably. The arbitrarily decided (by your boss, no doubt) island of misfit toys.

“Like I said: not actually weird, but normie weird. This location put the old rental place down the street out of business a few years ago. They had everything-- old school John Waters stuff, Kenneth Anger, Jodorowsky, Takashi Miike, like every classified video nasty, Faces of Death… all of it. It was pervert paradise.”

“Rest in peace, that’s a shame. Sounds like you know your stuff.” 

He pauses. “Wow, I didn’t mean to sound mansplainy or like I was doubting you or something. I just get nervous around--” He looks you up and down and you already know what he’s going to say, and for once, it’s not unwelcome. He visibly backpedals. “--Uh, people.” 

As you watch the blush creep up his neck, it hits you: _Oh no. He’s hot._

“Yeah, well, I also happen to be really into embarrassing film school dropout shit.”

He suddenly brightens up, seeming eager to gloss over the fact he was about to explicitly hit on you (and you really wish he had). 

“Oh, look, it’s my favorite extremely obscure cinephile pull--”

He lunges for a case and brandishes _Princess Mononoke._ He looks at it with confusion.

“Why the hell is this over here? Do people really not know about Ghibli?”

You shrug guiltily.

“I let some mom rent it for her kid and since it’s animated, I don’t think she was expecting decapitation et cetera. She came back the next day and railed me about it in front of my boss. Thus, ‘uncategorized.’"

“Personally, I think children need early exposure to graphic, simulated violence so they can grow up to be adults with good taste in movies.”

“Exactly, it’s character building. I did that mom a favor, if you really think about it.”

You both laugh, your eyes meet, and you try to hide the blush creeping up your neck too. You’re embarrassed at how quickly you’re done in by some random film bro who looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, but not entirely surprised. He’s hot and paying attention to you, and really, isn’t that all any girl wants?

“Well, thanks for the help, uh,” he glances down at the badge on your shirt and reads your name in that gentle drawl. The southern twang is barely there, like he’s made an effort to lose it, hidden by a slight gravelly quality. 

“My pleasure.” You lower your voice conspiratorially. “They make me say that, but I mean it.”

You head back to the counter to ring up the regulars who are renting _Muppets in Space_ for the millionth time. You pop _Treasure Planet_ into the master AV rig because if you have to watch _Mrs. Doubtfire_ again you’re going to scream. And you try really hard to not stare at the cute guy who by now has moved on to the horror section, but fuck it, what else are you gonna do? _Work?_ Please.

He reaches above his head for something on the top shelf and you catch that bare stretch of lower back as his shirt lifts, the band of his briefs peeking out slightly. It makes your stomach flutter because you’re fifteen, apparently. Eyecandy time gets interrupted by a child trying to bust open a box of Junior Mints, so you locate the mother and confiscate the goods. After they leave (the mom apologizing profusely while clutching her copy of _13 Going On 30_ ), you squat behind your station and eat the contraband. You remember how much you hate Junior Mints because they’re just chocolate covered toothpaste, but you didn’t eat breakfast. Or brush your teeth, for that matter. So it’s a two-in-one, really.

Halfway through the box, a stack of DVDs hits the counter.

“What’s that saying about getting high on your own supply?”

Fuck, it’s the guy. You bounce up and clear your throat, somehow managing to spill the rest of the candy onto the countertop. Smooth. Real smooth. You frantically try to brush them back into the box (because let’s be real, you _will_ eat them later).

“You didn’t see that.”

He snatches one from the counter, tosses it into the air, catches it with his mouth, then winks.

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

It shouldn’t be hot, it really shouldn’t, but it is. You’re bright red. It’s fine. You sift through the stack, scanning away. _Scream, American Psycho, The Exorcist III._

“Respectable picks.” The scanner beeps. “For a pervert, that is.”

“What can I say, it’s time for an annual rewatch. There’s no zen quite like watching a beautiful woman get chased around by a guy with a knife.” He pauses. “Or a chainsaw. I’m not picky.”

This doesn’t raise any alarms for you because you’re stupid. 

Instead, you laugh, and say “same”, whatever you mean by that. Impulsively, you scribble your number on the receipt and slide it into one of the cases so you don’t have to bear the embarrassment of being so obvious. He pays in cash and throws you a crooked smile one more time.

“Thanks, doll. See ya around.”

_Doll?_

He leaves with his movies, and you never see him again.

* * *

You keep having nightmares. They’re all the same: chased, gutted, dying, dead. You’re grateful that you barely remember them, but you know they’re still there just the same. You blame your medication and move on.

You work on a paper for your Introduction to German Literature course about _The Metamorphosis._ The thesis circles around the typical Kafkaesque themes of oppression by an uncaring society represented by the dysfunctional family structure and the betrayal of Gregor’s sister and blah blah blah you’re bored just thinking about it. 

Your phone buzzes and it’s a welcome reprieve. A text? Nobody ever texts you. 

> unknown: hey. it's the pervert from blockbuster.

It’s been a week and you had almost forgotten the entire thing. Your stomach flips.

> you: Hi. It's me, the other pervert from blockbuster. your DVDs are late :P

While you wait for a reply, you close your word document and take a smoke break on the patio.

> unknown: I know, i know
> 
> unknown: what are you watching tonight
> 
> you: A couple of squirrels fighting over nuts, actually.
> 
> unknown: wow is that part of the criterion collection? 
> 
> you: Wait nevermind they're fucking
> 
> unknown: same thing
> 
> you: The real answer is that I've been trying to find a rip of august underground on the internet through avenues that I can assure you are very legal.
> 
> unknown: that’s a good one
> 
> unknown: also, easy!
> 
> unknown: https://theatertime77.com/php/9848s89hhv /mordum2001mirror3
> 
> you: Wtf. What are you going to Blockbuster for?
> 
> unknown: because I'm a law abiding citizen! 
> 
> unknown: and sometimes there are beautiful girls there

You tap the buttons, two times, three times each in quick succession. You envy your friends with sliding keyboards as your fingers lag horribly behind your thoughts.

> you: Oh, I’m there all the time. 

You start watching _Mordum_. There’s a lot more vomit than you expected. Like, a lot more. The night drags on. You crack a beer, two. The flirting is nice. You let yourself be excited about it, so you commit the mortal sin of double texting.

> you: You didn’t tell me your name.
> 
> unknown: it adds a bit of intrigue, no?
> 
> you: What am I supposed to save you in my phone as then?
> 
> unknown: gentleman caller?
> 
> unknown: pervert from blockbuster? 
> 
> unknown: international man of mystery?
> 
> you: Fine. At least give me something to work with. What do you do? Like, as a job.

(You fall asleep and wake up giddy in the morning.)

> unknown: oh yknow, the normal 9-5 desk jockey grind
> 
> unknown: filing reports, faxing things, hiding bodies, etc.
> 
> unknown: jk
> 
> unknown: i’m a writer
> 
> you: Like a writer writer or a ‘working on a screenplay’ writer?
> 
> unknown: both
> 
> unknown: i contain multitudes
> 
> you: You certainly don’t text like a writer.
> 
> unknown: you have to know the rules to break em
> 
> unknown: also i hate hitting the buttons three times 
> 
> unknown: boring
> 
> you: Well, sorry for insulting both your texting and your screenwriting
> 
> unknown: no it’s ok the screenplay was terrible, idk what i was thinking
> 
> unknown: masked killer chases teens around? please
> 
> unknown: so hacky
> 
> unknown: i should stick to reporting
> 
> you: what’s the scoop?
> 
> unknown: there’s a masked killer chasing teens around, actually
> 
> unknown: not my beat though, they never let me work on the fun stuff :(
> 
> unknown: but if you’re dying to know the weather for this weekend or which middle school just won the tri-county history bowl, I’m your guy on the inside
> 
> you: I’ll keep that in mind. 
> 
> you: And I’m not saying that I can print endless buy one get one rental coupons but I’m not *not* saying that.
> 
> unknown: i think that’s what we in the biz would call bribery
> 
> you: That’s because it is ;)

The two of you continue the conversation through the next week or so, flirting and talking about movies. Every time your phone buzzes you grab it immediately, and then force yourself to wait to reply so you don’t seem too obnoxiously eager. He’s smart and funny and charming in a sweet, teasing way. Life gets a bit more bearable. You smile easily. 

He stops texting you back. You have long conversations into the night and then nothing. You’re starting to get really tired of being ghosted, but by this point you just feel like you deserve it. And of course you get ditched by the first guy you’ve been attracted to in forever ( _haha forever god i hate you)_. Serves you right for getting excited. You always take things too seriously. You feel totally unworthy of anyone’s attention. Boring. Horribly unattractive. Whatever. It’s fine. You drink about it.

At work, you run down the line of late rentals, skipping over his number every time. 

A few weeks, maybe a month later, the loneliness finally gets to you. Or maybe you’re just horny. Either way, you text him.

> you: You know, you’re really racking up the late fees on those rentals. Come see me again?

You don’t expect an answer. You know how it goes. He replies almost immediately.

> unknown: can’t :(
> 
> you: Why? 
> 
> unknown: ahaha 
> 
> unknown: you don’t watch the news much, do you?

_What the hell does that mean?_ You pick up the remote and flip away from the sitcom that was squawking in the background. A reporter stares seriously into the camera, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, lips glossy.

“--crime scenes indicate that the intruder had intimate knowledge of the homes invaded, and based on the evidence, the police suspect that the intruder extensively stalked the deceased prior to the murder. It is so far unknown if these killings can be connected with the grisly murders from across the state, but the sheriff’s department will be holding a press conference tomorrow morning with the task force dedicated to this case.”

They show a grainy image of a cloaked figure in a Halloween mask. The whistle of your teapot boiling drowns out the rest, and you bustle away from the TV to take it off the heat.

“The killer seems to wear a mask during his crimes, but the police have identified the face of a possible suspect. He was last seen on Tuesday evening outside the 7/11 on Belmont driving a white sedan. If you’ve seen this man or have any information, please call the tipline shown on the screen. Over to you, Tom.”

The genial voice of an older man breaks in.

“Well Sharon, _yikes_ . I’ll definitely be locking _my_ doors tonight.” He chuckles.

_“Tom_ \--”

“ _Because_ we’ve got a coldfront moving in from the east, so--”

You burn your finger as you drown the chamomile bag in water. You gingerly text the guy back.

> you: Yeah damn that seems pretty scary. I guess I wouldn’t go to Blockbuster either if I didn’t need the money so bad :/
> 
> unknown: omg you’re sooo cute
> 
> unknown: that’s not why
> 
> you: Wdym?

You return to your couch, clutching your tea. Before he can reply, they flash the image of the killer caught on camera again. Now that you see it, your gut drops ten stories. You do a double take. His face is just barely visible, but you don’t mistake it for a second. You dump the tea all over your lap and nearly throw your phone across the room. The water scalds your skin but the sheer panic that sweeps over you feels worse. _Who have you been texting?_

> you: What the fuck
> 
> unknown: yay :)
> 
> unknown: took you long enough
> 
> unknown: i was dropping some serious hints
> 
> you: I’m getting you arrested you sick fuck
> 
> unknown: lol ok 
> 
> unknown: good luck with that

You close the message and immediately dial 911. An audibly harried woman answers after a few rings and asks what your emergency is. You tell her, your heart pounding.

“I know it’s him, I met him, he came into my store, he’s been texting me--”

Do you have a name? _No_ . Did he pay with a credit card? _No_ . Does your store have any security footage? _Not anymore._ Are you in danger? _I don’t know!_

The woman tells you that she’s sorry, but there’s not much she can do, and that you can lock your doors if you feel unsafe. She hangs up.

You sit there in stunned silence, lap burning, the news rolling into brightly colored commercials like your world didn’t just shatter around you. Your phone buzzes.

> unknown: so how’d that go
> 
> you: Fuck off.
> 
> unknown: hey that’s rude :(

You should just stop texting him. You should turn off your phone. You try to swallow your fear.

> you: So, what, are you gonna kill me now?? Am I next?
> 
> unknown: nooo
> 
> unknown: i would never do that
> 
> unknown: probably
> 
> unknown: I like you too much

You feel like you’re going to throw up.

> you: Have you been watching me?
> 
> unknown: haha what no

You jump up to scurry around the house, locking windows, closing blinds.

> you: Leave me alone. I’m deleting your number. Don’t text me again.
> 
> unknown: :(

As if things weren’t bad enough. 

It’s too surreal. You can’t quite grasp it. So now you get to fear for your life with the added bonus that the cops are even more useless than usual. If you went missing, how long would it take for someone to notice? There’s the small comfort that the walls of your place are thin enough that, were you to be brutally murdered by a crazy stalker, Brenda would at the very least make a noise complaint. 

So there’s that.

* * *

Your life continues to haze by, seemingly unchanged, except for the tiny little detail that you’re being stalked by a serial killer. You don’t tell anyone about it because you don’t want them to worry.

You have your doctor up your dosage of Prozac. You jump at the slightest sound. You fail the analytic geometry midterm. You miss work. You don’t leave the house much. You spend your paychecks on takeout you barely touch, boxed wine, cigarettes. You can’t sleep. When you do-- for a precious few hours at a time-- you clutch the metal baseball bat beneath your bed with white knuckles. Sometimes you hear a weird clicking outside, like a camera flashing. No. Can’t be. Paranoid.

You watch the news obsessively for a bit, and then have to stop because it freaks you out too much. More murders in the area, each more disturbing than the last. Notes and pictures left outside homes, bodies posed, blood leaking through the floors of apartment buildings. Armed and dangerous. Still at large. Lock your doors.

Meanwhile, you misplace your keys, hairties, sweaters, notebooks, panties; everything, constantly. Within a few days they turn up places you’re sure you had checked. You wonder if you have some form of selective amnesia. Maybe carbon monoxide poisoning. Or maybe you're just stupid. Regardless, you don’t care enough to do anything about it. 

_(you fucking idiot you’re trapped there’s nothing you can do it’s already too late for you this is the last taste you get you’re in fucking heaven and you don’t even know it you god damn piece of)_

You don’t remember ever being this forgetful, clumsy, careless. Your mind feels like a sieve, and the only things that get caught in your awareness are strange, inconsequential details: a little girl’s bouncing red pigtails. Crows squawking at each other. Exposed wire. Rust.

Your mom calls and you lie to her. She asks if you’re staying safe _(yes mom)_ , if you have pepper spray _(yes mom)_ , if you’re seeing anyone _(no mom)_ , are you feeling okay, are the meds working? _(i have to go)_

Worst of all, somehow, is that the horrible, frantic little crywhisper that sometimes rings out from the back of your skull keeps getting louder, more insistent. You have to ignore it because listening is terrifying.

_(ahaha terrifying okay that’s right this is what terror feels like sure you fucking idiot)_

Actually, no, that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is the weird feeling you get in your gut when you think of the guy from Blockbuster, the serial killer, _your stalker_. That fear, that cold fear.

_(this isn’t even real you dumb bitch YOU are not real this is an echo of an old tragedy that time forgot she’s torturing you it’s like this forever and ever and)_

No; lying again. Not the worst. The worst is the stuff you won’t admit and that you pretend isn’t there. Because it’s not fear. It’s not fear at all. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re drunk. It’s nothing.

_(YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT’S COMING)_

The air smells like ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sir this is a blockbuster
> 
> i left for two months because the depression but i'm back and i have CONTENT that i'm going to POST because i'm a WHORE


	7. just a rabbit in your headlights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are the same as they always were. You know who you are. It's going to be fine. 
> 
> Keep telling yourself that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck no-nut november it is nut-ONLY november

You change your phone number. You quit smoking. You stop constantly listening to Elliott Smith.

The nice boy you’ve been sharing German Lit notes with asks you out for coffee. He’s cute, sweet, and laughs at all of your jokes a little too hard. You’re not sure if you’re all that attracted to him, but it’s nice to feel like someone else’s idea of you; like who you could have been if you tried a little harder, tried at all. Having someone to walk you to your car is nice, too.

You start finding your things where you left them. You sleep through the night. You don’t jump when your phone rings. And when you see more bodies pile up on the news, cross-county, out of state, far away from here; it floods you with sick, guilty relief. Some days you wonder if the guy from Blockbuster was just a dream, some nightmare that keeps rattling around in your skull.

The motions are familiar. You watch yourself do things, go places, talk to people. For all intents and purposes, you’re Normal. You go to class. You go to work. You smile at others. You only cry in your bathroom with a bottle of whiskey twice a week. The dreams have gotten worse. The tape holding you together is thin and straining, but there. You can’t look in the mirror anymore. You’re afraid you won’t recognize her.

In an effort to convince yourself you’re functional, you decide to Cook Dinner. You buy garlic, colorful vegetables, brown rice instead of white; optimistically healthy choices.

You slice your veggies with a knife you’ve never used before. The sound of the blade rapidly hitting the cutting board forms a rhythm you lose yourself in until it’s interrupted by a thick crunch. The tip of your index finger rolls into the slices of bell pepper. The blood is like corn syrup in a cheap B-movie and you don’t feel a thing.

You go to the bathroom and wrap it tightly in a towel, since that seems like the thing a rational adult would do. At a certain point you’re afraid to take it off because as long as you can’t see how bad it's gotten, it’s probably fine. Schrodinger’s fingertip. Ha. At least the blood hasn’t leaked through yet.

You reluctantly unwrap it and take a peek. There’s no blood, no bone; your fingertip is there, with no damage but your usual chipped black nail polish. You walk back to the kitchen and your cutting board is organized in neat rows of vegetables. 

There's a strange laughter in your skull, phlegmy and male. When you finally eat your dinner, it tastes like nothing.

* * *

You have to pick up the morning shift for your fellow burnout coworker and can’t even be mad about it. You _also_ wish you were bumming around at home with a 3-foot bong and bag of Cheetos. But Jeff always covers for you when you’re too hungover to get out of bed, so you pay your debt. A spot in the middle of your back aches, radiating pain through your shoulders. You looked in the mirror last night and there was nothing there, not even a bruise. You scribble bullshit answers about Pythagoras into a worksheet you know your professor won’t even look at. Either your tinnitus is flaring up or there’s some sort of electrical problem, because there’s a sharp ring in your ear that you can’t place. You try to ignore it but the flicker of the fluorescents drills it into your skull.

The harsh buzzing keeps getting louder. You glance up at the AV rig, all those tiny TVs watching you back. One second it’s a grainy frame from _American Beauty_ , and the next you’re watching a girl in the desert struggle against some dark creature that’s all twisting sinew and sharp teeth. It tears the girl’s throat open like tissue paper, feasts; blood pools black in the sand. She dies. 

Then she looks up, directly at the camera, and laughs. The girl is you. The camera cuts; it’s day, the suburbs, no blood, just roses. Thora Birch lights a cigarette. You stumble to the stockroom and bask in front of the minifridge; the yogurts, a can of coke, water, expired cheese. That stale chemical smell; the light so pure and cold you can almost feel that blood, that hot sand washing off of you. 

You go back to checkout and watch the movie on the AV rig intently, waiting for it to trip up again, waiting for a sign that you’re not crazy, or maybe that you are; just anything that proves whatever you’re feeling is certain, solid. The phone rings.

“Thank you for calling Blockbuster, how can I help you today?”

There’s a moment of crackly silence. Someone sobs. No, static. “...Hello?”

“I want--” a thin, female voice says. She clears her throat. “I want to rent a copy of a movie.”

“Sure thing, ma’am. I can check if we have it.”

There’s another pause, muffled voices in the background. When she speaks again, it’s clear she’s been crying: “I want to rent... _Amer-- American Psycho._ Please.”

It throws you for a loop. Still missing. $245 in late fees, to be precise.

“I’m sorry, that title isn’t avail--”

A male voice suddenly speaks. _“Well isn’t that a shame, poor Angela is gonna be so disappointed. Isn’t that right, Angela?”_

There’s a crash down the line and a muffled scream. That _voice_ , oh _god--_

_“I guess she doesn’t really feel like talking right now. The duct tape might have something to do with it. Having a nice day at work, princess?”_

Your throat closes up. 

“Fuck off,” you croak.

_“Hey, that’s not very fucking polite. You’re in customer service, remember? Isn’t the customer always right?”_

There’s whimpering in the background, shuffling, cries of pain. 

“You’re not a customer!” _Goddammit your boss is coming_ . You lower your voice. _“What the fuck are you doing to her?”_

_“I don’t tell you how to do your job, you don’t tell me how to do mine. Now, you’re gonna stay on the line with me and play nice, or poor Angela here is about to lose-- oh, I dunno. A finger, maybe? What do you think Angela, are you really gonna miss it? One little finger? C’mon, stop squirming--”_

“You can’t do this.”

_“Tell me you’re gonna play along now or it’s two fingers. Maybe I’ll come for a few of yours, too. I want you to say, ‘yes, sir.’ Come on, do it. Angela’s depending on you.”_

“Yes, yes, _fine_ , yes sir. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

_“That’s a good girl. I’ll just do a toe, then.”_

“Wait, _no--!”_

He laughs. Your boss stares at you suspiciously. 

_“Ah, I’m kidding. I’m not really much for the whole dismemberment thing. I’m more of a disembowelment kinda guy. Exsanguination. Evisceration. I like some defenestration too if I’m feeling spicy. Actually, do you have any movies with defenestration? Maybe Angela would like that better.”_

You bite the inside of your cheek. You can still hear the woman crying around a gag in the background. The vein in your boss’ forehead simmers beneath his skin.

“I don’t have all day, babe. Answer me.”

“Of course we do, _sir_. I can put aside a copy of _Rear Window_ for you…” Your boss turns to help a customer and your words come out in a rapidfire hiss. “ _And then you can come get it and I can throw you out the fucking window myself, you cretin piece of--”_ your boss turns around-- “Yes sir, it’ll be waiting here for you. Is that all?”

“That’s perfect, cupcake. As much as I’d like to keep playing with you, all this defenestration chat is getting me pretty hot to trot, murder-wise.”

“Wait, what are you going to-- is she going to be--?”

“Oh, Angela will be fine. I’ll make it quick. As for her husband, well, god bless him, wherever he may be.” It sounds muffled, like he’s holding the phone to his chest, speaking to the woman on the floor. “Which is dead, by the way.”

The woman’s blood-curdling scream gets cut off by the dial tone. You click the phone back into the cradle and take a deep breath. 

Your boss grunts. “What the hell was that?”

“Prank call,” you say, absently, watching the TVs again. You see yourself in technicolor, teeth red with blood, laughing.

**

You stop at the McDonald’s drive-through on the way home from work and order two hot fudge sundaes with nuts. At first they tell you the machine is broken. Your response must sound truly desperate because the workers decide that wait, _ma’am_ , it’s fixed, actually. The teens who hand them over stare at you like they’re watching a house burn down. You eat them alone in your car under the golden arches, blasting one of those sharpie-signed CD’s from an ex where each song feels like a punch in the gut. You lick the fudge from the sides of the cup. It doesn’t taste right, it doesn’t taste like chocolate at all; there’s something gritty and rusty about it. You finish it anyway. It’s McDonald’s. 

You get home, drink, smoke, scan your shelf of books and DVD’s. The idea of paying attention to anything for 90 minutes sounds like a chore, but being alone with yourself sounds worse. _The Big Lebowski… Poltergeist, Misery, Basic Instinct… American Psycho, Scream, The Exorc--_ wait.

American Psycho. Scream. The Exorcist III. 

You pull the white-spined Blockbuster rentals off the shelf and a bit of yellow paper floats down to the floor. 

> _sorry it took me so long, i was just taking some notes :)_
> 
> _xoxo_

* * *

You open your eyes and wince in the sunlight. You look at the time. You look at the sleeping body next to you. Your mouth is stale and dry and tastes like his.

The guy from German Lit smiles at you sleepily. “That was fun.”

You give him a squished up little smile back. You got drunk, asked him to come over, pretended to not be drunk, ate takeout (that you paid for) on the couch, had very boring sex to _The Office_ reruns, and laid awake for hours caged in his sleeping, immovable arms. You weren’t looking for connection, you wanted a witness; you don’t want sex, you want to hear your own heart beating to prove you still have one.

“Yeah, fun.” 

He brushes your hair away from your face and you can feel him hardening against your leg. His mouth is as gross as yours is. You get up and get dressed while he lays there, watching you with affection you can’t match.

“Sorry to kick you out, but I have to be at work at 9. I’ll see you in class?”

He scrounges around for his belt and socks, then dresses sheepishly. You make small talk that you forget instantly. He says you look pretty, gives you a kiss, and you shut the door on him. You take off your clothes, then jerk off to someone else and go back to sleep. Hours later, when your shift actually starts, you’re late anyway. You did your daily google search on the serial killer terrorizing the area and fell into a true crime K-hole that made you break out in a sweat. Three more dead in Augusta. No leads. You masturbate again. You clear your search history.

You’re determined to salvage the day, shake off the anxiety, stop ruminating on all this sick shit, this gore. You sort DVDs. You clean sticky soda out of the carpet. You space out thinking about things you hate yourself for.

“Excuse me, dear--” 

An extremely old woman in a cat-hair covered cardigan dodders up to you. 

“What can I help you with today, ma’am?”

She clutches your arm with a papery white hand, her grip too tight. She looks like your grandmother did before she died.

“You run in circles, child.”

You gape at her. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a sickness that you feed,” she whispers, her lips sticking dryly around her dentures, “You are not ready.”

“Ma’am, I don’t understand. Can I help you find something?”

“You will not know until it takes you.”

You’re crying. It’s your grandma. Her hand is so _cold_. 

“I _said_ , do you have any movies with Robert Redford? _”_

Your eyes are dry. The old woman is young and annoyed. You’re ringing up _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_. You don’t know her.

You go home at 2 p.m. and drink yourself to sleep.

* * *

_you’re late for class._

_you sit in a toilet stall of your high school, staring down at the grimy pink-white checkered tile. your homework isn’t done; you don’t know the lines for a play you’re supposed to be in tonight._

_you notice that the panties around your ankles are black as pitch. you’re wearing white and you don’t have tampons. but it isn't blood, it's something else, there's so much of it. it hurts to touch; needles in your skin, chemical burns. you pull something out of your vagina, some sort of organ that's still moving, crying mechanically, rotting flesh, oozing tar and foam. you shove it back inside of you and collapse in on your center like a dying star._

_you stand in a field. stalks of corn whistle in the breeze. a girl in the distance crouches beside a red fence surrounded by hay, flaxen and bright, just like her wispy hair. it’s you, happy as a child, all wide eyes and sun freckles. she has something in her hands, held gently as if it’s a butterfly, or something else easy for death to touch._

_you see in unnatural close up as she opens her hands: tiny palms, cradling a delicate bundle of twigs and leaves, something only the deft hands of a child could create. it suddenly burns with a tall, red, vertical flame that screams through the air. she looks up to it and smiles. the flame shoots from her mouth, then her eyes, and she disappears into that blinding light with a loud cracking sound, like the universe just swallowed her whole. the air smells like ozone. you look up, too. perhaps it will take you with her._

_the stars spell out your name and the clouds look like blood clotting. you’re naked on a stage with a flimsy set, teeth falling out, trying to remember lines you never learned._

_and then_

* * *

You wake up ten hours later with a pounding headache. You slam three Tylenol and an off-brand sports drink that doesn’t hydrate you at all. You don’t recognize the scraggly, blue-mouthed bitch in the mirror. Fucking christ. When did it get this bad?

Your phone buzzes. 

> _unknown: rough day, baby? : )_

The serial killer thing. The going crazy thing. All the things you destroy yourself to forget. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about him calling you at work. You can’t get that woman’s horrible scream to stop ringing in your ears. Sometimes you pray for her, pray for yourself; may you be forgiven for the sin of silence, of compliance, of hands that will never be clean.

You throw your phone aside and decide to cope with your burgeoning hangover in a healthy and adaptive way: by burning through a six pack of PBR while playing Silent Hill 2. Your phone buzzes and you ignore it until there are three crushed cans on the ground as you keep looping James through the same hallway, lost. You get up and do your ritual of checking all your locks to make sure they’re secure. They're not. They never are.

Frustrated and tipsy, you check your phone.

> _unknown: relax_
> 
> _unknown: i told you i wasn’t going to hurt you_
> 
> _unknown: yet_

You swallow the lump in your throat and put the phone down. You go back to the game but can’t focus. You check your phone again.

> _unknown: go left btw_
> 
> _unknown: clock key was back there_
> 
> _**you** : Stop backseat gaming. _
> 
> _unknown: wtf you walked right past it_

You stare at the texts, the thread, his number. You blink hard and they remain. For some fucked up reason, it feels like an anchor: something real. Something you can prove. And the proof that he’s somewhere here, watching you, _waiting_ , doesn’t horrify you nearly as much as it should. Instead, your drunk brain parses it as a comfort: if the most dangerous man in the state is outside your window ( _inside your home?_ ) and you’re still breathing, then there’s no safer place in the world. 

You turn James around and find the key.

***

The next morning, it occurs to you that you haven’t heard those sweet little birds that live in the tree out back sing in so long. You miss that small kindness, that one thing. Bag of birdseed in hand, you fill the empty feeder outside your bedroom window. You notice jagged hearts carved into the thickest branch, your initials inside. 

You feel the ghost of those same cuts somewhere deep inside of you. 

* * *

You’re drunk on cheap wine again; your mouth stained red, lips sweet and buzzing. 

It’s the middle of the night on a Monday, you have class in the morning and work in the afternoon. You stripped your clothes off because you’re drunk and it’s hot. 

(It’s hot because it’s summer and your AC stopped working last week. When you had called the technician to fix it, he told you that someone must have cut your freon line clean through. You asked if that was normal and he said no. You couldn’t afford to get it fixed. You don’t question how this could have happened or why someone would want you to sweat it out or why someone might want you forced to strip naked to bear the heat. You bought a box fan.)

So you sprawl across your bed and pick up your phone. You should have turned it off before you started drinking, but it’s too late for that; you never do that. You find yourself dialing the number and before you can stop yourself, it starts ringing. 

He picks up immediately. His voice drips low down the line, under your skin.

_“Well, well, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

You’re not sure what to say. This was a terrible idea.

“Hey,” you say stupidly. “You’re--” You grapple for something to say and your alcohol-soaked brain hands you a flash of anger. “What the fuck? Did you fucking kill that lady while we were on the phone? Have you been following me? _Have you been in my fucking house?”_

_“First of all, language. Second of all, that’s ridiculous, you know I’m a gentleman. I killed her afterwards.”_

“You gaslighting fuck. What’s wrong with you?”

_“Oh, lots of things. For one, there’s the-- wait. Are you drunk?”_

“No,” you slur. He laughs delightedly.

_“Oh my god, you’re drunk. Amazing.”_

“Oh fuck off.” You stumble over the syllables.

_“Hey, you called me.”_

“I’m still allowed to tell you to fuck off.”

_“It’s 2:34 in the morning. Is this a drunken booty call to your stalker? Is that what this is?”_

“No, this is very explicitly me telling you to go fuck yourself.”

_“That sounds convincing.”_

“Get off my ass. Do you really not have anything better to do than follow me around like a creep?”

_“You’re right. I don’t. Because I have a little thing called priorities.”_

“I can’t possibly be that fucking interesting. You watch what I do all day. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. I do this to myself. The only person I talk to is my stalker.”

_“...Am I really the only person you talk to? You’re all mine?”_

“No, I talk to a ton of people. I have a lot of friends. I have a ton of friends that you just don’t see that I talk to all the time. You’re not one of them. Shut up.”

_“Oh, friends? Like your little boyfriend?”_

“No. The guy I’m _fucking_.”

_“And do you like fucking him?”_

You suck your teeth. “I like his dick.”

His voice jumps with anger. _“Yeah, I can tell, you fucking slut. I really hate seeing his cock in your mouth.”_

“Then stop watching.”

_“Well then maybe I should call you at work again. Maybe I should pay your boyfriend a visit. Have a nice chat. Maybe I make you choose what I kill him with. Would you like that?”_

“Do what you’re gonna do.”

_“Ouch, that’s cold. Is this because he can’t make you cum? That he can’t fuck you like you deserve to be fucked?”_

You grit your teeth because he can’t and definitely doesn’t. The death threat part doesn’t really register. Not that you could do anything to stop it anyway.

_“Y’know... I had a dream about you last night.”_

The curiosity gets the best of you. “...yeah?”

_“Yep. Do you wanna hear it?”_

Silence.

_“If you want me to tell you, I wanna hear you say it.”_

(when he commands you to tell him like that, _I wanna hear you say it_ , it gives you an inexplicable feeling of deja vu, a memory you forgot you had)

“Fine. Yes. Tell me.”

_“Soooo, we were in a forest, and it was raining.”_

The tone of his voice sounds like he’s a girl on the phone at a slumber party, coiling the cord around a finger, kicking his legs. Your mind keeps circling back around to his fingers.

_“I was chasing you around but I couldn’t catch you. There were some other people there who I didn’t care about at all, which is weird for me ‘cuz I like to get to know them first, y’know, journalist’s instinct. Not that fun otherwise. But none of them mattered because I had you, I had to be alone with you. Anyway.”_

Ice trickles through your veins.

_“So there were some loud machines, bright lights, some creepy black thing in the sky that sounded like my stepdad-- weird dream nonsense. You really gave me hell. And then, ugh, you tripped, I finally caught you, had you under me on the ground, and you smelled like… like roses. And then I think I killed you, or-- or maybe you killed me, or both were happening at the same time or something. But it was fuckin’ hot. I came soooo hard.”_

It’s the dream you’ve been having, the details slightly different, but the feeling is the same; that nagging itch of repetition.

“I’ve been there too. You’re always--”

_“You’ve been dreaming about_ **_me_ ** _? Oh, honey, you just made my whole week. Tell me more.”_

“Yeah dipshit, you’re the star of my nightmares. But instead of you killing me, we usually--”

(You usually fuck, is the thing, and you almost always have a crazy orgasm in your sleep, which has never really happened to you before until now. But he can’t know that.)

“We usually-- I kill you, and then... I guess I die anyway. Or something. It’s bullshit and I hate it.” You pause, worried he picked up on what you were going to say as you try to thread the needle of drunken coherence. “And I hate you, by the way, in case you forgot.”

_“Again, you called me. Do you make a habit of calling people you hate when you’re drunk and naked in the middle of the night?”_

He guessed that you’re naked, he must have. Sure. Chug your wine.

His breath hitches, words trailing out. _“You’ve been thinking about me a lot, haven’t you, baby?”_

You snort. “Not consciously.”

_“So I’m curled up nice and cozy in your subconscious then, huh? Always there, watching. Listening to the terrible things you think when you’re alone.”_

“I’m not sure you would want to hear those terrible things. Most of them are about you dying.”

_“Go on.”_

You tell him exactly what you want to do with the baseball bat under your pillow, how you won’t stop even after he’s dead, that you’ll paint the walls with his blood; despicable shit, when did you get this violent, this _sick_ \--

He moans. 

“Are you jerk...” ( _that fucking deja vu again this has happened before when when)_ “Oh, what the fuck, you totally are.”

_“Don’t hang up--”_

“Or what? You’re gonna kill me? I know you won’t. You like me too much, remember?”

The silence stretches out. He laughs.

_“You really don’t wanna have phone sex with me? I know how badly you wanna cum.”_

There are only so many ways you can say shut up, I hate you, go fuck yourself, _you’re right_.

_“Seriously cutie, you don’t have to pretend with me. You just wanted to hear my voice, didn’t you? I’ll say anything you want, pretty girl. I can tell you all about what I want to do to you, how I’ll break you, break your mind, your gorgeous body. You just have to ask.”_

The room spins gently around you as the words rest sweetly on your tongue.

“I-- I want…”

_(you dumb bitch just say it SAY IT get what you want before it’s too late just take it and feel good before you can never feel good again i’m so fucking jealous of you fucking oblivious cunt DO IT)_

That little voice scares you into making a better decision. 

“I have to go,” you say hurriedly, then snap your phone shut. You turn it off.

You stumble to the bathroom and throw up. There’s blood in your vomit, jagged bits of metal, torn flesh. No. Can’t be. Isn’t there, nothing is, really, your hands look like they were put together wrong, don’t think about it, you’re drunk, it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine. 

You pass out with your room warping around you, awful thoughts crowding your mind, and after hours of frantic dreams, you cum in your sleep so hard it wakes you up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -me? working through unbearable feelings of mourning for a world you’ve lost, drowning in paranoia, trapped in a place where you’re being gaslit by reality itself? in this pandemic?
> 
> -all bitches do these days is be bisexual, charge iphone, chainsmoke, obsess over a fictional serial killer to stave off the crushing existential terror, exorcize personal demons via psychotic horny shit, eat trash and lie
> 
> -blessings to dear friend ao3 user lucifer, without whom this fever dream fuckfest cosmic horror cumrag would not exist and who is writing the real cultural reset of ghostface fuckery which I demand you read THIS INSTANT
> 
> anyway hope you're all well and that this made you horny/intellectually stimulated/brain horny see ya NEXT TIME i.e. a few months if I'm honest i.e. in the aftertimes where money has lost all value and we simply have a barter economy of seashells and murder smut scrawled on cumstained napkins

**Author's Note:**

> you all are so sweet i love you thank you. you deserve all the spooky depression dick you want and i will gladly deliver it to your doorstep


End file.
